


But Do Not Yet Know

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Even Then (You'll Still Be Mine) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, But no explicit het, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Focus is on Geralt/Jaskier, Geralt can have a little bit of fluff as a treat, Geralt needs a hug but won't accept one, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Fuckery, Minor Injuries, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Some very tender bandaging, Synesthesia, This one does have some hints of polyamory, Witcher family feels, Yen and Jaskier are reluctant besties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Jaskier and Yennefer have rescued Geralt from captivity, but getting him back will be more complicated than they realized.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Even Then (You'll Still Be Mine) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648981
Comments: 345
Kudos: 1033





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're just joining us and don't want to read the first part of this series, what you need to know is that Jaskier (with Yennefer's help) went undercover as certified asshole Prince Kacper to infiltrate the brothel 'o supernatural creatures where Geralt was being kept as a slave. In order to get permission to buy Geralt, he had to prove his worthiness by taming the witcher enough to fuck him, which he did with flying colors. Great, all the problems are definitely solved now! Right...?
> 
> Thanks to hobbit dragon for beta-ing.

“Over there is fine,” Prince Kacper said breezily as he strode into the chamber.

The guards, each holding one of Geralt’s arms, marched him over and pushed him to his knees. Geralt wasn’t certain what town they were in, but this must have been the nicest room in the nicest inn, because it was, well, fit for a prince. He’d felt the plush rugs under his boots as he walked in, and could feel the warmth radiating from what must have been a large hearth. The room smelled clean and well-kept, with very little scent of dust or rot, and an overtone of beeswax on the furniture. 

The guards walked away, and he could hear them talking to Prince Kacper by the door through which they’d entered. Still facing straight ahead, Geralt continued to work the rough shard of rock he’d picked up when they’d stopped for the noon meal against the ropes holding his arms. He’d had to hold his arms together carefully to make sure he didn’t accidentally break the weakened bonds as the guards had hauled him up the stairs of the inn.

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him myself, gentlemen,” Kacper was saying. 

“But if something happens--”

“Then I will call for you.” Geralt heard the clink of coin passing hands. “See that the horses are settled, and then you may go to your dinners. I want at least one of you on watch through the night, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the guards said. The tromping of boots announced their exit, and then came the sound of the door closing firmly, and of a bolt shooting home. Geralt was alone with the prince, and it would likely only be moments before he used his borrowed magic on Geralt again. 

For the moment, though, Kacper stayed where he was, and Geralt heard a soft thud, as if the prince was leaning his head against the closed door. Geralt gave a sharp tug and felt the ropes give at last. As quietly as he could, he shrugged them off his arms and pushed to his feet. No matter the risk, he didn’t intend to spend tonight as he had last night. 

_Geralt had walked all day with his hands tied together behind him and a lead rope attached to the saddle of one of the guards. Idiots. He’d be dragged for certain if the horse bolted, possibly even killed, but that wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome of this situation. Geralt couldn't remember when he had last been outdoors, and the travel itself was not objectionable. They were passing through wooded countryside, with the bright smell of growing things and the sweet sound of birdsong._

_However, the travel did tell Geralt more about his condition than he wanted to know. Notably that being blind and somewhat sense-addled, he had little hope of surviving on his own in these woods, let alone escaping from Iwen’s guards or from Prince Kacper. Perhaps if he had been healthier to begin with, the task would not have seemed so daunting. But weak as he was right now, he did not expect that he could survive an encounter with an angry badger, let alone a ghoul or something worse. He was woefully out of condition, and felt exhausted after only a few hours of walking. He had no weapons, no armor, not even any proper clothes. Before they’d departed, Prince Kacper had requested, and received, a pair of boots for Geralt, saying that he did not find frostbite attractive in his playthings. For the same reason, he had obtained a jacket, which provided at least some relief from the chill wind. But a few articles of clothing would not be proof against the deep cold of an early spring night._

_Geralt would have to bide his time until either he was better supplied, or they came to a more hospitable place. It would need to happen before they reached their destination, however, because Geralt felt certain that Prince Kacper, once behind his own walls, would not soon give him an opportunity to escape._

_The prince rode up front all morning, chatting to Iwen’s steward, who had come along for the first part of the ride. Occasionally their laughter drifted back to Geralt, where he was surrounded by four mounted guards. He resolutely did not think of what they might be discussing. It made no difference to him what Kacper thought, only what Kacper did._

_The prince must have more of whatever it was he had used to so thoroughly confound Geralt last night, and it was of paramount importance that he not let Kacper use it again. It seemed to have worn off this morning, so it didn’t last a full day, but Geralt couldn’t afford to give up any chance at escape by being unable to act when the time came. With any luck, Kacper would not want to play with him until they got where they were going, and Geralt could look forward to spending tonight uncomfortably trussed like a chicken under the unfriendly eye of the guards. That would be a vast improvement on his previous evening._

Geralt crept forward until he heard the floorboards creak at Prince Kacper’s turning. Then he lunged, heedless of stealth, and grabbed the prince by the throat. He slapped his other hand over Kacper’s mouth, and dragged him away from the door, so anyone outside would be less likely to hear the commotion. 

Kacper’s hands came up to clutch at the hand around his neck, but he wasn’t as strong as Geralt, even in the witcher’s weakened state. Geralt bore him down onto the floor, aiming them for the rug to muffle the sound of their fall. Pinned under him, Kacper didn’t struggle, only whined in pain as Geralt tightened his hand around his throat. 

Geralt could kill him now. The thought was extremely tempting. But it would be useful to have some information first: what town they were in, how to reach the inn’s back entrance, and whether Kacper had brought any supplies into the room with them. If he were lucky, Geralt could have the whole night’s head start before the guards found Kacper’s body. 

“Do not make a noise, or I will break your neck,” Geralt growled. “Nod if you understand.”

Kacper nodded.

“If you answer my questions, I’ll give you a clean death, which is more than you deserve.” Geralt drew his hand off of Kacper’s mouth. 

Kacper immediately gulped in a breath, and wheezed, “Geralt.” He coughed and dragged in another breath, “Please, Geralt. I’m sorry.”

Geralt froze, and then tightened his hand on the man’s throat, causing him to whine softly and try, only somewhat effectively, to take another breath. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s me,” the man rasped. “It’s Jaskier.”

“Who--” Geralt frowned. The name meant nothing to him. “What do you want with me?”

“I--” Kacper hesitated, and Geralt assumed that meant he was trying to come up with a plausible lie. “I came to get you out. To bring you back home.”

“Witchers have no home.”

“Of course.” Kacper dragged in another breath. “You said Kaer Morhen was your home, as long as Vesemir was there.”

Geralt tightened his grip on Kacper’s neck, and leaned his full weight onto his chest. “What do you know about Kaer Morhen?”

Kacper began to choke, and at last Geralt eased off so the man could drag in another rasping breath. “Please, Geralt, can you let me up?” He sounded more apologetic than afraid. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to be afraid. He might have some kind of a magical innovation ready to use against Geralt the moment he let down his guard. “Yennefer sent me. And if you kill me and the guards recapture you, she’s going to be very irritated, and will probably have to come get you herself.”

“I’m not going to be recaptured,” Geralt snapped.

“I don’t want that either,” Kacper hissed. “So keep your fucking voice down. I’m sorry I did what I did yesterday, but all that was to get you away from there.”

“Hmm.” Geralt at last eased his grip enough to let the man breath normally, though he kept his hand around Kacper’s neck as a warning. “You wanted to get me away from there so you could keep me yourself.”

“No, to take you home. Your home,” Kacper said again, though Geralt still had no idea where that could possibly be. Kaer Morhen hadn’t really been home since before the massacre. “We have to keep up the ruse until the border, where Yennefer’s sending some men to escort us. Iwen’s guards will go back home, reporting that you’ve been safely delivered, and then they won’t try to hunt you down. If you want to leave then, fine, but we’ve worked pretty hard to get so far, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t ruin it when we’re so close to the end.” Kacper brought a hand up to touch his throat, and Geralt tightened his fingers warningly. “If you’re going to keep hurting me, make it somewhere that’s covered by my clothes, at least, in case the guards come to check on us.”

Geralt loosened his hold again, though he grabbed Kacper’s wrist and held it with his other hand. “Why do you care about the guards?”

“They’re Iwen’s men,” Kacper said quietly. “If they notice I’m injured, they’re going to suspect I can’t control you, and they might take you back to Iwen.”

“You can’t control me.” Geralt twisted Kacper’s hand in a wrist lock, and Kacper gasped quietly but didn’t make any louder noise.

“I’m not trying to control you,” Kacper whispered. He sounded afraid now. Good. 

“What about last night?” Geralt snapped.

Kacper made a pained noise that shuddered through his whole body. “Listen, Geralt… This is the first time I’ve been unobserved since I arrived at Iwen’s estate, and I was very much looking forward to being able to stop being brave and stoic for a moment. Would you mind if I just did that? You can throttle me again after, if you wish.”

Geralt’s mouth fell open as he searched for a proper reply to that. Then he closed it again. This Kacper did not sound much like the man who’d been giving him orders last night. “All right,” Geralt said slowly. He released his hold on Kacper and backed away, ready to move if Kacper tried anything. 

“Thank you.” Kacper-- or Jaskier, apparently--turned over and dragged himself as far as the bed. Geralt heard the clank of a metal chamber pot, and then the sound of Kacper being violently sick. The smell of bile made Geralt wrinkle his nose, and sounded in his ears like a high-pitched, piercing whine. 

_Geralt remembered seeing the sorcerer in front of his cell, and wondering if a mage would be any more unpleasant than a normal man. Often, after one of his escape attempts had failed, Iwen made sure his next visitor was a particularly vile one. But this time, when Geralt woke up, he knew right away that something had changed. The sounds of morning routine in their dungeon, already so familiar, were strangely muted and garbled. The scratch of the straw against his skin seemed to be the cause of the unpleasant taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw only a pale white glow with vague outlines of some gray shapes. He flung a hand up, thinking perhaps that bright sunlight was the cause, but his eyes didn’t track the movement of his hand, and his sight remained blank and white. He heard what he thought might be the sound of a guard moving away down the corridor, but it came with a strange smell, like cold wind on a rainy day._

_Geralt touched his face, looking for damage, but felt no scars, no injury that could explain the situation. He tried to remember what had happened after he’d first seen the mage, but his memory of the previous night was as blank as his vision. It could have been something other than the sorcerer: noonwraiths could cause temporary blindness, though the idea that he would have encountered one at night and indoors seemed ludicrous._

_The wind smell came back with the sound that might have been the guard, and another set of footsteps besides_

_“Neat little spell, isn't it?” came a voice Geralt was fairly certain belonged to Lord Iwen. “The mage gave it to me in trade for some time with you. There were a few little tests he wanted to attempt with a witcher, and I think he was very happy with his results.”_

_Geralt spared a moment to feel grateful he couldn’t remember his time with the mage. Perhaps that would explain how strange he felt-- the aftermath of some magical experiment, perhaps. “What…” Geralt said. His voice sounded somehow far away, and sent an unpleasant sensation crawling over his skin._

_“It's those witcher senses, you see, that have been such a problem with you and your attempted escapes,” Iwen said. “Besides the blindness, which I think we shall find very convenient, the spell ties together your other senses, crosses them with each other. Apparently it can be difficult to tell one from the other sometimes.”_

_Geralt breathed in, trying to get Lord Iwen’s scent, perhaps see if he might be lying, but instead he saw a blurry gray pattern in his whited-out field of vision, and smelled nothing at all._

_“But never fear,” Iwen continued. “I did emphasize I wanted you still to be able to hear instructions, and to feel pain. So the basics have been preserved.”_

_“Wh--” Geralt tried again, but the sound scraped against his newly muddled senses, and he flinched back from it._

_“Don’t worry, witcher. I’m sure you’ll become accustomed to it in time. And I expect you won’t be as eager to leave us as you have been recently. Give him some food, and make sure he eats. I want him healthy for our next group of guests.” Iwen retreated, taking with him the smell of rain._

_Geralt sat still, trying for the moment not to do anything that would scrape against his newly-muddled senses. He would test them out later, and learn his limits before his next opportunity for escape. If Iwen thought this would make Geralt more docile, he was going to find himself sorely mistaken._

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier said. He crawled back over to where Geralt was crouched, as if he did indeed expect Geralt to start throttling him again. When Geralt made no move to do so, he said, “I was going to have them bring up a bath. Will you kill me if I go to the door and call for the serving girl?”

“How do I know you won’t just call for the guards?” Geralt asked.

“Here. Let me give you this.” Jaskier held out his hand, and Geralt reached out slowly to touch. 

Sitting on Jaskier’s palm was a short dagger in a plain leather scabbard. Geralt picked it up, slid the blade part way out, and pressed a finger gently to the edge. Perfectly oiled, and very sharp. The man had been carrying a blade, one he had reached almost instantly just now, and he hadn’t drawn it when Geralt attacked. Was the man insane, or merely stupid?

“If I call for the guards, I’m sure you can stab me before they arrive,” Jaskier said.

“Of course I can.” Geralt might be in a somewhat compromised state, but he could certainly stick a dagger into Jaskier’s gut easily enough. 

“But please don’t,” Jaskier said quickly, perhaps sensing something of the eagerness in Geralt’s voice. “Here, come stand within stabbing distance, behind the door so the servants don’t see you and wonder why our dangerous prisoner has a weapon.”

He stood and moved slowly, so Geralt could easily follow. He waited until Geralt had unsheathed the dagger, then unbolted the door and opened it. This was the most critical part, because Jaskier could likely get out a shout before Geralt could stab him, if he didn’t mind sacrificing his life to subdue Geralt. But princes tended to have a healthy sense of self-preservation, and Geralt imagined Jaskier had made the same calculations and valued his hide enough not to try it.

Jaskier called out pleasantly to a passing servant, and when the girl came over, they held a short conversation in the doorway. Jaskier didn’t seem to be trying to keep his voice down, but the quiet sound sent an itching sensation across Geralt’s skin, and he couldn’t make out the words. In any case, there didn’t seem to be alarm in his voice, and the servant girl didn’t run off in a panic. Jaskier stepped back into the room, and with him came the smell of something that sounded like a low, musical hum. 

“There. They’ll bring up the water shortly.” Jaskier kicked the door shut-- perhaps his hands were full, and said, “Would you mind bolting that? And while we wait, would you like some food?”

Geralt bolted the door, then turned to face Jaskier, who by the sound of it was setting out a tray of food on a table at the other side of the room. 

“Why?” Geralt asked, starting to feel slightly out of his depth.

“To... eat?” Jaskier said slowly. “I know they can’t have been feeding you enough.”

Geralt pushed the dagger back into its sheath. It seemed that Jaskier was not eager to be killed, or to get the guards to come rescue him from the evil witcher. For some reason. But now that Geralt could smell-- well, hear-- food, he found he was very hungry indeed. Sussing out Jaskier’s motivations would have to wait a little longer. He said, “I could eat.”

_“Do you want some food, witcher?” The guard asked from the other side of the bars. Geralt could easily picture his expression: smug and leering. “You know what you have to do.”_

_And Geralt did. They've been telling him for days, every time they brought a bowl of steaming slop and bread by his cell. He wasn't certain how long it had been since he had eaten, but he was starting to get light-headed, and the last time he’d tried to stand to take a piss, he’d nearly fallen over again._

_Geralt had never heard of a witcher starving to death. He knew he could be hungry. He had been, frequently, when work had been scarce, but he had never tested its limits as far as this. He remembered someone-- a friend, it seemed like, though that couldn’t be right-- saying how they would both surely perish from hunger if they went without dinner one more night. But that had been an exaggeration, Geralt felt fairly certain._

_The guards had told him on the second day that if he wanted the food, he would need to beg for it. Since then, they had brought the food each morning and evening, but Geralt had not begged, and they had not given it to him._

_He could just die. He supposed that might be easier, in the long run. Iwen had seemed in no hurry to kill him, and in fact seemed to rather enjoy having him imprisoned, so disappointing him would be a bonus. But as Geralt considered that option, something inside him objected. There was someone waiting for him, he thought. Some reason why he should not die._

_When Geralt tried to pinpoint what that reason might be however, the idea seemed increasingly unlikely. Who could there be waiting for him? He depended on no one, and no one depended on him. The life of a witcher was solitary, for many good reasons. So if he died, he would only be inconveniencing himself, and perhaps, somewhere, disappointing Vesemir with the loss of one of the few remaining witchers. But Geralt was no good to anyone in this cell, and so if he was not on the Path anyway, he wasn't actually depriving the world of his skills, at least not any more than he was already by sitting here in this cell._

_But there_ was _something else. An idea that sat like a word on the tip of his tongue. There was another reason he had to stay alive. He wasn't ruling out the possibility that he might let himself starve to death later, after all. He may as well obey his instinct now, and not die._

_“Please,” Geralt said softly, and the guard grinned._

Geralt followed the smell of the food, which came along with a hum that rose and fell in his ears, to find the edge of the table with his outstretched hand. 

“Here, sit,” Jaskier said, and patted his hand on the back of a chair. 

Geralt sat, putting the knife in his lap where it would be easy to access but hard to take away. 

“There are benefits to the innkeeper thinking you’re a prince,” Jaskier said as he sat in the neighboring chair. “Getting your food and baths faster than the other poor souls.”

Jaskier’s fingers touched Geralt’s hand, and Geralt snatched his arm away, baring his teeth in the man’s direction. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaskier said quickly. “I was just going to show you-- the food?” He waited, but Geralt was busy unclenching his fingers from the hilt of the dagger. “All right?”

“All right,” Geralt said warily. 

Jaskier reached out again, very slowly, and this time Geralt let Jaskier take his hand and guide it around the lip of a dish on the table, touching at intervals and saying, “Cheese here, bread here, pretty fresh looking. Pickled… cod? Herring? Not sure. Slices of apple. Roast lamb and onions.” Then he drew Geralt’s hand slightly to the side and placed it against the cool side of an earthenware tankard. “Ale here, but please go easy.”

Then Jaskier let go and drew his hand away. Geralt tore off a piece of the bread, which was crusty and slightly warm on the inside, and began to chew, with one hand still on the dagger. Jaskier seemed to just be sitting, not eating. Geralt sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to attack or call for help, because Geralt was quite enjoying the novelty of sitting at a table and eating real, fresh food.

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier asked eventually. “I brought some healing salves and whatnot, in case you needed them. Yen said you shouldn’t take any potions yet, in case they’d done something magical that might make the potions more toxic for you or that the potions might be too strong if you hadn’t had any in awhile or if the ingredients were too fresh or not fresh enough. It made sense when she said it.”

Geralt lifted the tankard of ale and took a sip as he considered that. Few understood the intricacies of witchers and their potions. He asked, “Who’s Yen?”

“Yen…” Jaskier sighed a little. “Yennefer of Vengerberg. She’s a sorceress. A… friend. She helped find you.”

A knock sounded on the door, and Geralt tensed. “The water,” Jaskier said quietly. “Just pretend like you’re compelled.” Too quickly for Geralt to protest, Jaskier strode to the door, unbolted it, and opened it to the lighter steps of a serving girl, who emptied her container of water into what must have been a tub by the hearth and went out again. She carried in the water while Geralt ate. He couldn’t tell if she was watching him or ignoring him, but it hardly mattered. 

Geralt had no idea what the landlord had been told about him-- that he was a prisoner, or a madman, or something else. Without any of the trappings of his profession, without his _eyes_ , there was nothing to mark him as a witcher. Whatever the staff had been told, the serving girl must have trusted that the brave Prince Kacper-- or whatever his name was-- had the situation well in hand, because she made no comment other than to thank Jaskier when he handed her a coin on her way out. 

The door closed softly again, and Jaskier walked over to the tub and plunged in a hand, splashing the water a little. “You should bathe while it’s hot,” he said. 

“Me?” Geralt asked, with a mouthful of lamb. He’d assumed the bath was for the prince, though he realized now that Lord Iwen’s guest chambers surely had their own bathing facilities he could have made use of.

“I… yes?” Jaskier sounded uncertain. “I thought… You usually…”

“What?” Geralt asked.

“After a contract. You like to have a bath. Clean off the blood and… things. I thought it might be nice, is all.”

Geralt couldn’t remember when he’d been in a warm bath. Not since before he’d come to Lord Iwen’s. And even before that, baths had been a luxury, and a cold stream the more regular (and economical) mode of getting clean. If a contract had been lucrative, he did treat himself to a hot bath. The question was, why did this _Jaskier_ assume he knew Geralt’s preferences? Though, as with the food, perhaps the deeper questions could wait in favor of attending to physical needs.

“You’re not going to try to kill me while I’m in the bath?”

“No. I’ve worked quite hard to ensure you’re not killed.” Jaskier paused, and Geralt tried to imagine the expression of consternation on his face. “What can I do to convince you? You could tie me up if you like, I suppose.” 

Geralt thought there might have been a hint of humor in Jaskier’s tone, but he merely grunted in response. If Jaskier hadn’t tried to kill him yet, he had his reasons. 

Geralt unlaced his boots, which were not a bad fit, considering they’d been obtained on little notice, and set them aside. The clothes, at least the ones that he’d been wearing longer than a day, were stained and smelled of sweat and straw that floated in his vision like hazy willow-the-wisps. He considered wearing them into the tub to wash them, but the thought of hot water on his skin was too tempting. He stripped them off and let them drop. What did he care if this man saw his body? He’d seen it before, touched it, used it. 

Geralt climbed into the tub. The water was blissfully warm, and he could feel his muscles relaxing as if by magic as he settled himself against the side. 

“They brought some soap,” Jaskier said. “The expensive stuff. Here.” 

Geralt groped towards the sound of his voice until he found the small cake of soap, soft and smooth in Jaskier’s hand. Geralt breathed in, trying to smell it, but only heard a low, thrumming whine. 

“I used to wash your hair.” Jaskier sounded a little closer, maybe even leaning against the tub. “Guess that’s unnecessary. Ah, do you want me to--”

“Do not touch me.” Geralt’s voice lashed out like a thunderclap, and he heard Jaskier stumble.

“Right,” Jaskier said in a very small voice as he moved away. “All right.” 

Geralt leaned his head back against the side of the tub and let his mind drift as Jaskier bustled around the room and whispered to the servants. He tried not to worry too much whether Jaskier would come to put a spell on him or slit his throat or drown him. He’d had several opportunities already, and if Geralt was going to die, well, at least he’d die clean, well-fed, and comfortable, which was a state of affairs far superior to what he’d thought likely this morning. 

_Last night, the guards had brought Geralt back down to the dungeon, to the room where they'd given him a rough scrubbing before bringing him to Prince Kacper. They repeated the procedure now, shoving him to his knees, and dumping buckets of cold water over his head, while one of them gave him a cursory rub down with a rough brush. Geralt did not try to struggle. He would prefer not to know if the compulsion spells still held even in Prince Kacper's absence._

_Such things must have a finite duration, and it was possible it had already ended. It was possible that the spell hadn’t held him for long at all; just long enough to convince him to cooperate. Perhaps Geralt could have fought more, and hadn't, because he was simply too broken to resist. Perhaps he could move right now, if he wished._

_The guards, after some muttering to themselves, pushed Geralt down onto his belly. One knelt on his shoulders, while another one of them pulled out his cock and thrust it inside Geralt with no ceremony. Geralt decided not to stop them. It was his choice to let it happen. That was preferable to thinking that Prince Kacper's power could hold him so long, might be able to hold him for, as Lord Iwen had put it, for the rest of his miserable life._

_After they'd all had a turn, they dragged him to his feet and pushed him back to his cell. He sank into the rough straw, not bothering to try to squirm out of the ropes that held him still._

The warmth of the tub was intoxicating. Geralt hadn’t fallen asleep, not really, but his eyes had drifted shut, his muscles had relaxed, and he was remembering some bit of a melody he’d heard once. He couldn’t remember the words, but the tune curled through his mind, folding back on itself and repeating.

“Don’t drown, please,” Jaskier said from somewhere beyond the edge of the tub. A respectful distance, at least. “That’d be hard to explain to Yen. I brought a towel. It’s here.” 

Geralt opened his eyes, and immediately felt his muscles tense as he remembered he was not safe, not in a place he could let down his guard. He reached out and caught the linen towel in Jaskier’s hand, then stood and stepped out of the bath, keeping a firm grip on the edge of the tub. The steam must have made him lightheaded, because it felt harder to stand up than it usually did. 

“Uh, I had the serving girl bring me some clean clothes for you. They’re on the chair, here.” Jaskier tapped the back of the chair, and Geralt noted the spot. “A few things from the innkeeper’s oldest son, apparently. They seem like they’ll be a good enough fit. I gave them the other clothes to burn. I hope they didn’t have any sentimental value.”

“No.” Geralt had nothing of sentimental value, not any more. He stepped towards the chair and found a pair of smallclothes on top. They were clean and dry, so it didn’t matter that they were a bit too large. The rest of the clothes were similarly ill fitting, but better than nothing.

“There’s a mantle too, for traveling,” Jaskier said. “No hood, but it’s quality wool. Hanging over the back of the chair. It’s not really warm enough yet to do without.”

“I did without today.”

“I know.” Jaskier’s voice sounded tight. “Believe me, I know. Is there anything else you need that I’ve forgotten?”

“No.” Anything else he might need, this man surely couldn’t give him. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.” Geralt heard the sound of digging in one of the packs on the floor. Jaskier returned with something that clinked and rattled with a sound that nearly stopped Geralt’s heart. “Lord Iwen’s steward gave me this. I guess Iwen had kept it as a momento.” Jaskier held out his hand, and Geralt reached out gingerly to feel what he had. 

As soon as his fingers made contact with the silver, he knew: the medallion of the School of the Wolf on its delicate silver chain. Geralt snatched it out of Jaskier’s palm and clenched his fist around it. The familiar hum of its power resounded in him, clear and strong and not in any way hampered like the rest of his senses. He put it over his head, and stood with his fingers wrapped around the medallion, resting against his chest, in its proper place. 

It was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to say thank you, but he bit it back. Undoing some small measure of the harm the man had been party to wasn’t praiseworthy. He owed this man nothing.

“Well.” Jaskier shifted his weight, and the floorboards creaked. “Listen, you should sleep in the bed. I’ll--”

“I’m not going to let you fuck me.” Geralt released his grip on the medallion and let his hands fall to his sides, to put himself in a better defensive position.

“I know that.” Jaskier swallowed hard. “I’m not going to try to fuck you. I’m not going to do that, and I’m sorry I did it yesterday. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Geralt hoped his scowl contained all the disgust he felt, even without his eyes to lend their effect. It hadn’t been an accident. The man had known exactly what he was doing, had planned down to the last detail how he would subdue and humiliate Geralt. But the important thing was that the man now understand that Geralt wouldn’t tolerate it again. “I will stab you if you try to fuck me.”

“Yes, I get it.” Jaskier’s voice sounded weary and small. “I was going to say I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Fine.” Geralt waited a moment, to see if Jaskier was going to argue or wheedle further, but he didn’t. “As long as you don’t touch me.”

“I won’t.”

Geralt felt his way onto the bed, which seemed large enough for several people. The sheets were fresh and crisp, with soft blankets laid on top, several layers deep. The pillows smelled of goose down, which also registered as a pleasant yellow fuzz across his vision. He settled the dagger under a pillow where he could reach it quickly, and drew the covers around him at the center of the bed. 

He heard Jaskier drag a rug from the fire over to the door and sit down, shifting the door with a soft thud as he leaned back against it. No matter. Geralt was almost certain he’d felt the draft from a window while he was eating. He could still get out if he decided to leave, or dispose of his captor once the man fell asleep.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice came from his place on the floor, and sounded a bit like the taste of smoke. “Please… Just, please don’t run off in the night. You’re capable of killing me at any time and getting out of here, I recognize that, but… don’t yet. On the off chance that I am telling the truth and trying to take you back to people that care about you.”

“Nobody cares about witchers.” Geralt was surprised at the amount of bitterness in his voice.

“Witchers as a profession, maybe not,” Jaskier said softly. “But I-- but there are people who care about _you,_ Geralt. Very much. They will be so, so relieved to see you.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt couldn’t think of anyone who’d be happy to see him. Even his fellow witchers would surely be more dismayed than pleased to see him if he arrived in his present state. 

“And besides, you have to be practical.” Now Jaskier’s voice held a note of desperate pleading. “Every day we travel puts us farther from Iwen’s estate and Iwen’s reach. It’s just good tactics to wait.”

Geralt grunted. He wasn’t about to concede that the man had a point. Instead, he pulled the blankets up close under his chin, and closed his eyes. With food, rest, and proper clothes, he’d be better prepared to make a run for it tomorrow.  
\--

Jaskier found a neck cloth from the trunk that held his clothes, and tied it with a flourish. A look in the polished glass mirror standing in the corner showed that it mostly covered the marks on his skin left by Geralt's hands. His throat was still sore, and he would not have wanted to sing a concert, but when he tried his voice, he found he could speak without sounding too raspy.

He was blessedly alone for a moment, as the guards had come to take Geralt downstairs and supervise his breakfast. Jaskier didn’t want to linger, leaving Geralt to fend for himself with the guards who were, after all, loyal to Iwen. He looked over the contents of his bag once more, mind racing over what he might need in today’s travel. He opened a small leather case at the top of the bag and lifted out one of the remaining magical sachets Yennefer had made for him. He shoved it in his belt pouch, and tightened the strings against accidentally coming loose. It would be no good to accidentally dose himself with compulsion magic. But if he and Geralt had to deal with Iwen’s men, the spell was an advantage that might come in handy. 

Jakier hurried downstairs and followed the innkeeper's instructions, delivered amidst much bowing and scraping, out through the courtyard where the horses were being saddled. When he came into the stables, he stopped at the sight that greeted him; one of the guards had backed Geralt up against the wall and was grabbing at Geralt’s crotch while the bound man turned his face away. The other three guards stood around them, leering.

“What is this?” Jaskier was surprised to find a hint of the imperiousness Yennefer had taught him creeping into his voice.

The guard started and backed away. Geralt, his hands tied again behind his back, bared his teeth in a silent snarl, but at least didn’t lunge for the man’s throat.

“This is my property now, not Lord Iwen’s. And I do not share,” Jaskier said, thinking, _At least not with you_. He didn’t touch the knife on his belt, the one he had taken back from Geralt before the guards had arrived this morning, but he dropped his hands to his sides, where he could grab it quickly. 

The man who’d been groping Geralt gave a bow of his head. “Begging your pardon, your royal highness. We meant nothing by it.”

He could stab the man, Jaskier thought. Right through the throat. He’d gotten good throwing daggers one winter at Kaer Morhen, thanks to a bet with Lambert. There had been a time when he would have hesitated to stab a man, but compared to everything else he had brought himself to do recently, one little stab wound seemed like very little. 

But there were four of Iwen’s guards, and one of him. And while Geralt would certainly not hesitate to defend himself, he couldn’t trust Geralt to fight on his behalf. If the guards were looking for an opportunity to murder Prince Kacper and rob him of his newly acquired and very expensive slave, this would be an excellent opportunity. 

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” he said with as much icy contempt as he could muster, which was, it turned out, quite a lot. “We're leaving now. Get about it.” He turned on his heel and strode out into the stable yard, leaving no room for argument.

He was already mounted-- the easier to fight if they did decide to attack him--when they led Geralt out a few moments later. But aside from a few speculative glances at Geralt when they thought Jaskier wasn’t looking, they got underway without incident. 

It began to drizzle not long after they started out, and Jaskier was more thankful than ever that the innkeeper had been able to spare a mantle for Geralt. Jaskier had his own fur-lined cloak, quite nicer than anything he'd had in his days as a traveling bard. But though he was fairly warm and dry, he could not enjoy the sensation at all, knowing that Geralt was trudging through the mud, and the wool mantle, though it might keep him warmer, would not keep him dry.

Jaskier had so much to make up for already that adding this debt, riding in comfort and dryness while Geralt trudged through the mud, seemed a horrible burden. He would never make up what he owed Geralt at this rate, or likely at any other.

A vivid picture of Geralt’s contemptuous scowl came to mind easily, and Jaskier felt the force of it like a blow. He found that tears were running down his face and mixing with the wind-driven rain. He hadn’t yet had a proper chance to let himself go, not under Lord Iwen’s roof, and not in the bustle of convincing Geralt not to murder him and run off. He was riding a good ten yards ahead of Geralt and the mounted guards, who weren’t likely to bother him, so he was alone as he was likely to get. He didn’t have to hold together at the moment.

Jaskier had been prepared for Geralt not to recognize him at first, or to take some convincing to trust that he really was who he was. But in all his preparations with Yennefer, he hadn’t thought that Geralt would simply not know him at all. It would be one thing for Geralt to know who he was and hate him for what he’d done. But for Geralt to think him a stranger was infinitely worse, somehow. Jaskier wasn’t a friend pushing the boundaries of allowable liberty in the name of Geralt’s freedom, but just another nameless monster who brought Geralt nothing but pain.

Clearly some magic had been worked upon him, and if the memory loss was some kind of a curse, there was every chance Yennefer could reverse it. But Geralt hadn’t forgotten everything. He knew who and what he was. He clearly knew of Kaer Morhen, and perhaps he would remember Yennefer when he saw her. But Jaskier was gone from his memory, wiped away as if he’d never existed. Was it possible no magic was involved at all, and Geralt had simply forgotten him?

Jaskier’s palfrey sidestepped under him as she picked up his agitation. Jaskier forced himself to relax his hands on the reins and slow his breathing. The last thing he needed was to break his neck being thrown from his horse. He had to master his fear.

_Jaskier was unrolling his bedroll that night when he saw the dried blood under his fingernails and stopped to stare at it. His hand was shaking, he realized. His breath was starting to come faster. He smoothed out the bedroll and shook his head. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. The bandits who had attacked them were dead, and the fact that one of them had died with Jaskier’s knife in his throat was an interesting footnote, maybe a detail for a song, no more. Jaskier had seen Geralt kill monsters and men before. This should be nothing new._

_“Jaskier,” Geralt said._

_“I'm fine,” Jaskier replied quickly, but his voice trembled a little._

_Gaskier crouched beside him. “This is your first, isn’t it?”_

_Jaskier nodded slowly._

_“It can take a man later. Sometimes, after the battle’s over and your blood has cooled, that's when your body lets itself feel it.”_

_“There's nothing to be afraid of now,” Jaskier said out loud, hoping that would make it feel true._

_“But there was,” Geralt pointed out. “And your body will only let you stop it from doing what it has to for so long. The fear will come out eventually.”_

_“Well, you seem fine.”_

_“I wasn't when I made my first kill,” Geralt said. “Though I trained for it all my life.”_

_“It's hard to imagine you upset over the death of one measly bandit.” Jaskier could picture the man’s wide, staring eyes, the blood welling around the hilt of Jaskier’s dagger. “I’m not upset either. I’m fine.”_

_“Hmm.” Geralt stood and went to rummage around in the saddlebags by the fire. Then he dropped down to sit at the foot of Jaskier’s bedroll, and handed him a small bottle._

_“What’s this?” Jaskier peered at the cloudy liquid._

_“A strong dwarven brew. Perfectly safe. Sometimes forgetfulness is the best cure for a day like today.”_

They arrived at the Three Bells inn near the northern edge of Riedbrune shortly after midday, and Jaskier felt weak with relief when he saw six horses tied in the yard tacked out with Prince Kacper’s colors.

The men Yennefer had planned to send were plausible escorts, men who she knew and trusted, but who would appear to these guards as appropriate guardians of Prince Kacper's interests. One of them must have been looking for them on the road, because the men, in livery that matched the horses, poured out into the stable yard as they rode in. 

“Prince,” one of the men said to Jaskier as he dismounted. “We're glad to see you.”

“Likewise. No need to stop for a noon meal. The prisoner can eat on the road,” Jaskier said. “I’m eager to get my prize back home.” He turned to Iwen’s guards, one of whom was reluctantly handing over the lead rope they’d tied around Geralt’s hands to the smartly dressed escort. “Gentlemen, your duty is completed. And please tell your master thank you again for a lovely visit.” He handed the first guard a small purse of coins, though he dearly wished he could slit the man’s throat instead. 

Iwen’s men, clearly in no hurry to start their return journey, stayed in the inn yard and watched as Prince Kacper's escorts secured the witcher, mounted their horses, and headed out onto the road. They were still standing in the yard watching when Jaskier looked back after reaching the edge of the town. 

Jaskier waited until their little party passed over a rise in the road and was out of sight, then reined in his horse to come up alongside the front escorts. “Where's our stop?” he asked.

“Half a league up, just past the river.”

“Good.” Jaskier glanced back once more, but there was no one on the road behind them. Yet. “I don't know what their orders are, but I did almost stab one of them this morning, so I would not be surprised if they came after us.”

“Did you now?” the man asked with a smile. “We did have orders on what to do if things came to a fight, but we'd rather avoid it. Still, we’ll keep up as we are until we reach our turn off, just in case they do come looking right away.” He turned his head to address the man whose lead rope he held in his hand. “If you don’t mind, Master Geralt, we’ll have to lead on a little further. Are you able to walk for another piece?”

Geralt gave a surprised grunt, and nodded his assent.

Jaskier slowed his horse and fell back behind Geralt and the escort, partly to listen for any sounds of pursuit, but also to keep distance himself from the watchful attention Geralt showed whenever he was in earshot.

Shortly after the party crossed a rickety wooden bridge, one of the escorts called to Jaskier, and pointed at a place off of the road. It looked to Jaskier just like another thicket, but the man dismounted and led his horse through, disappearing into the woods. The other escorts followed suit, and Jaskier came last, following Geralt.

The trail ran for a ways through the woods, little wider than a game path. At last, the woods opened up into a clearing. Two other men waited there who greeted their fellows eagerly, and with them were several horses loaded with supplies.

The escorts dismounted and began stripping the gaudy breast collars and barding from their mounts, and removing the tabards that marked them as Prince Kacper’s personal guard.

Jaskier dismounted and came to stand next to Geralt, who was frowning as he listened to the preparations. “These are all Yennefer's men,” he said. “We needn't continue to pretend that you're a prisoner. Here, may I? Your hands?” Jaskier waited for Geralt to hold out his bound wrists, then struggled with the wet knots until he could unwrap the ropes. They’d been tight enough that they left furrows in Geralt’s skin when they fell away.

Geralt stood rubbing his wrists, his head turned towards the escorts who were busy shifting their discarded costumes to the pack horses.

“We're going to take the back roads for a while,” Jaskier explained. “In case Iwen’s men come looking for us. We don't want to be an obvious target in the next town we reach.”

Geralt just stood for a moment, then said in a rush, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you have a right to know. And frankly because if you have any input on how to further confound pursuit, I’d love to hear it.”

Geralt only grunted in response. 

“Yennefer sent some of your other things along too. Can I show you?” Jaskier put out his arm and waited for Geralt to take it, then led the way further into the clearing. Jaskier drew up to the picket line and guided Geralt’s hand to the withers of the first horse in the row, a sturdy chestnut. The mare put her head down and butted gently against his chest. Geralt breathed in deeply, his face suddenly going tight.

"Roach?" Geralt said softly, and she wickered at him. 

Geralt’s hand tightened in the mare’s mane, and Jaskier saw him freeze, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Roach shoved her nose into his chest, and he jerked into motion again, stepping closer to lean against her warm, solid bulk and breathe in the scent of her. For the first time since Jaskier had set eyes on him, he lost some of the sharp, suspicious awareness that he held before him like a shield.

“The innkeeper in Drakenberg, where you finished your last contract,” Jaskier said. “He kept her, and your swords too. I can show you?" Jaskier waited for Geralt to offer his hand, then placed it at the back of Roach’s saddle, where Geralt's pack, with its two swords, was strapped on tight. “He didn’t have any other things of yours, no potions or… Well, nothing else. I picked a few things, fresh, in case there was anything you needed to make right away. Verbena, ribleaf and celandine, and a few other things.” 

Geralt stood stroking Roach’s neck for several moments.The frown on his face deepened, and at last he turned his head towards Jaskier. “This isn't a ruse,” he said. “You do know me.”

“I do.” Something in Jaskier’s chest unknotted at seeing Geralt’s shoulders relax, just a fraction. “And if you want to ride off now, I'm not going to stop you. I think finding whatever you're looking for out there on the road as a blind witcher would be difficult, so I very much hope you'll come with me to see our sorceress friend, who I can personally testify is excellent at reversing magically induced maladies.”

“Been a victim of many curses, have you?” Geralt asked with a derisive huff.

“You once commanded a djinn to steal my voice,” Jaskier said, and appreciated the look of consternation that caused.

“A djinn,” Geralt said slowly.

“Nevermind, there was no permanent damage. The point is that Yennefer is a good mage.”

Geralt’s hand stilled against Roach’s neck, and he asked, “Who are you to me?” 

“A travel companion,” Jaskier said eventually. “An annoyance, often. A friend, when you were feeling generous.” _Half of my life and a structurally integral portion of my heart_ , he wanted to say, but didn't. It wasn't fair to make demands on Geralt now, or maybe ever.

“If you are who you say you are, you risked your life coming to Lord Iwen. You must have been a good friend.”

“I thought so,” said Jaskier. _You didn't always,_ he wanted to say. _There were many times I thought you hated me._ But again, such insinuations were no use to a man who couldn't remember their past to counter Jaskier’s claim with his own interpretation.

“In any case, we should travel as far as we can before sunset.” Jaskier stepped back and cleared his throat. “If Lord Iwen’s men double back for any reason, I don't want them to find us. Are you up able to-- "

Geralt had already put a foot in the stirrup and mounted, settling onto Roach with easy familiarity.

“Oh. All right.” Jaskier took a moment to wonder if even a witcher could guide a horse while blind, then decided he didn’t have the right to object if Geralt wanted to try.

“Master Julian, we’re ready,” one of the escorts called. They were all mounted up, and a couple were already leading the pack horses onto a trail at the opposite side of the clearing.

“Thank you. I’ll be ready in just a moment.”

“Julian. Is that your name?” Geralt asked as Jaskier mounted.

“Sort of. Julian is what my parents call me. Jaskier is what I go by. It’s sort of a stage name.”

“Don’t tell me you’re an actor.”

Jaskier chuckled at the disgusted expression on Geralt’s face. “I’m a poet. A bard.”

“A bard?” Geralt seemed about to say something else, then closed his mouth. “Hmm.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Jaskier felt the barest hint of a smile slip onto his face, and he urged his horse onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your generous comments on the first part. They are very motivating! This part of the story is a bit long, and so will be posted in four chapters. Stay tuned for more!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there friends. Heads up that the journey to recovery can be a rocky one with setbacks, so be sure to check the tags! There is sweet mixed in with the bitter here, but we're definitely not to the all-comfort-all-the-time stage yet! Many thanks to Hobbit for the continuing beta help.

Geralt had expected to stay awake all night. More than a half dozen strangers who might mean him harm crowded into a forest clearing was almost a guarantee that he would need to remain watchful. But when the rabbit stew came off the fire, someone handed him a bowl, and when they began passing around a wine skin, the man next to Geralt held it out to him as if he were just another member of their party. 

He lay down on the bedroll they’d provided and heard the appointed watch turn their attention out to the dark woods, rather than towards him. He waited for someone to approach him, demand something of him, but Jaskier was at the far side of the clearing, facing away into the dark, and most of the other men were snoring. Had anyone ever guarded Geralt from danger, rather than guarding against him? He couldn’t recall. 

Geralt found himself drifting awake at the quiet chatter of the other men and the morning songs of the birds, which tasted like honey on his tongue. He’d fallen asleep after all. The whole party was up and on the road again with admirable efficiency. It felt good to have Roach with him again, even if it meant trusting her to keep them on the road with the others more often than he would have liked. He felt something almost like hope swelling in his chest as he breathed in the sweet country air from her back. 

Not long after they set out, they arrived at a town big enough to have a market day, and had to slow down in the press of traffic. Though it was still early in the morning, Geralt caught the scent of freshly baked pies wafting from a baker’s stall. The smell of them sounded like the hiss of steam. They’d all dismounted to lead their horses through the crowded market, which was loud with shouting merchants and shoppers and sent pulsing spirals of color through his vision. Geralt was shielded from the press of the crowd by Roach on one side and Jaskier’s bay palfrey on the other, but he turned his head to chase the smell. He’d almost forgotten there were things in the world that were delicious.

From the other side of his horse, Jaskier chuckled. He must have been watching Geralt. “You always did have a weakness for pastry. Go on, I've got some coin in that pouch in the saddle bag. Get me one, too. I’ll hold Roach.”

Geralt passed off his reins, felt along the palfry’s flank to the saddlebags, then followed the sound of clinking to find the purse. He worked a hand inside to grab a coin or two--no sense flashing a full purse in a crowded market--when his hand caught something small and soft: a little sachet full of powder. The smell reached him only distantly, but he recognized it immediately. It was the same magic Jaskier had used on him at Lord Iwen’s, the foul concoction that had controlled his mind. 

Geralt quickly let go, in case Jaskier was still watching him, and fumbled two coins, which felt like orens, out of the purse-- vastly too much for a couple pastries, but suddenly he had no qualms about wasting this fool’s money. He steered deftly towards the smell of food and cries of “Pies aplenty, hot pies here!” 

“What can I get you, gran’ther?” the baker asked. 

“Two,” Geralt growled, ignoring the misidentification. “Whatever’s fresh.”

When the baker handed them over, Geralt shoved the coins at him and turned away, ignoring the startled “thankee sir!” behind him. 

Without a word, Geralt thrust one of the pies at Jaskier and snatched back Roach’s reins. 

“Thank you. Ah, this crust looks perfect.” Jaskier sighed dramatically, and led his horse on.

Geralt followed behind Jaskier, surrounded by the rest of their escort. He tore savagely into the hot pastry with his teeth, any pleasure he might have hoped for in the treat forgotten. This man who’d called himself a friend was a liar and a cheat. He was ready to enchant Geralt at the slightest sign of resistance. Geralt couldn’t fathom why Jaskier would have been trying so hard to win Geralt over if he could simply have forced Geralt to obey him. Perhaps he had some cause to which he wanted Geralt to apply himself willingly, or perhaps this was simply a cruel game to him. Hadn’t he told Lord Iwen that he’d been planning his revenge for a long time? 

What was most galling was that Geralt had started to believe him. He’d thought after years of reinforcement of the idea that no one could be trusted that he’d lost the capacity to be disappointed, but he had been mistaken. 

Geralt took stock of the position of the escorts--six of them, too many to fight in his current state, even with his weapons. And fleeing through this crowd was out of the question. He’d have to wait until they were on the open road again and make a run for it then.

Jaskier kept up his cheerful chatter all morning, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s lack of response. At midafternoon, one of the escorts rode ahead to alert the household to their coming. He carried a note Jaskier had written, undoubtedly containing some gloating about how well he’d deceived Geralt so far.

No opportunity for escape presented itself, and at a pause in the flow of Jaskier’s babbling, Geralt decided he may as well try to steer the conversation in a useful direction. “What is this place you’re taking me to?” he asked.

“It’s an estate Lady Yennefer acquired some years back. Quite nice.” Jaskier seemed pleased to finally see some kind of interest from Geralt. “I’m not sure if she purchased it, charmed it away from its owner, or conjured it out of thin air. In any case, she uses it as a base of operations. The three of us used to stay there when...”

“When what?” Geralt asked, curious if Jaskier had run out of prepared lies.

“When we weren’t overwintering at Kaer Morhen.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Kaer Morhen. So you’ve been there,” Geralt said dryly. “I took you there.”

“Just for the winter. Eskel liked my singing. Lambert said he’d rather listen to the sound of crows pulling flesh off of corpses.”

“Hmm.” Geralt felt a pang of fear, wondering if that meant this man had had some sort of run-in with his witcher brothers, and if they’d escaped it. That did sound like something Lambert would say. 

“But this place is peaceful. You’ll like it. Or, you used to, at least. Yen put in a great hot water system for baths.”

The escort tightened up around him as their destination approached, leaving no opening to run.  
Geralt sat up in the saddle and tried to take the place in, seeking any hint of familiarity. And perhaps it would be better not to let on yet that he had uncovered Jaskier’s deceit. If he could convince them he was pacified, they might not guard him so closely. It was the same mistake Lord Iwen had made, at first. He knew passivity could too easily turn to despair, however, and that he was determined to avoid.

_“Toss him a coin, go on!” one of the guests shouted to another, to uproarious laughter. A coin bounced off Geralt’s shoulder and rolled away somewhere, but he ignored it, as he tried to ignore most things on nights like this._

_He rested his head against his arms, which were braced against the plush carpet, and listened to the rain pattering on the window that also sent ripples of motion blurring across his vision. Rain was good weather for staging an escape: the water would wash away any trail. And the storm was something to pay attention to aside from the chatter of the revelers filling the room and the increasingly noisy grunting of the man currently using him._

_Geralt closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sky, the dark outline of trees, the give of forest loam underfoot, the cold lashing of rain on his face. Someone was coming for him, he told himself, though the idea had been worn down to the smallest nub by frequent repetition over the last months. The man moving inside him groaned as he climaxed, clutching at Geralt’s hips. After a moment, he stood, and another took his place, shoving in without hesitation._

_It was no wonder his hope had dwindled. Geralt couldn’t even say who he imagined might come. Not the other witchers. They surely thought him dead. No, he felt certain there was someone who would follow him anywhere, whose faith in Geralt’s ability to live through improbable situations would mean no end to searching for him. But when would Geralt have known someone like that, and why? Reason warred with instinct as doubt worried away at the scant remnants of his conviction like a dog with a bone._

_The man fucking him pushed hard on his back, and Geralt gave way, letting his chest be pressed to the floor. Nothing that had happened so far tonight had been nearly unpleasant enough to make him consider resisting, not with the life of his latest cellmate--a wild-eyed and silent wood nymph from the south--in the balance._

_What had Geralt ever done to endear himself to anyone? Why would anyone particularly care if he lived or died? And if they did care, wouldn’t they have arrived by now? He wasn’t a child, to swoon over fairy tales of a magical swan that would carry him away into the sky. This idea, which he couldn’t even remember properly, was surely only something he’d made up to comfort himself. If someone were that important to him, he’d remember who they were. And it was that thought at last that convinced him. No one would come for him. The idea of rescue crumbled into nothingness, leaving only a glaring awareness of the present._

_The man pulled out, hurried around to pull Geralt’s head up by his hair, and splashed his issue across Geralt’s face._

_“Such a polite little toy,” someone said from a few feet away._

_“It’s all about knowing how to handle him,” Lord Iwen drawled, stepping around Geralt. “Witchers have no emotions, but they have a very high sex drive, so using them this way is as much of a pleasure for them as it is for us.”_

_The men around him laughed drunkenly. One of them slapped Geralt’s ass, then shoved into him with a hedonistic moan._

_Geralt pressed his eyes closed and tried not to listen to the conversation any more. No one was coming for him. He was on his own._

Geralt felt the passage through the walls of the estate as a break in the chill wind. The horses in front of him stopped, and he reined in Roach. Voices echoed around the courtyard, those of the escorts and of others he didn’t know. He dismounted with the rest, and heard Jaskier step up beside him.

“Geralt, this is Yennefer,” Jaskier said, as the swish of skirts across cobblestones announced the presence of the much-discussed sorceress. 

“Lady,” Geralt said politely, with a shallow bow in her direction.

“I’m not familiar to you?” the woman asked. She stood close to him, so close he could feel the warmth from her body. Close enough to be in danger if he had wanted to harm her, which she obviously thought he couldn’t. 

Geralt took her in as best he could-- her voice, her scent: something flowery, berry-sweet, and colorful that didn’t rise above the prevailing scent of horse. There was nothing in it that he recognized. He shook his head. 

“Does anything here seem familiar?” the sorceress asked.

Geralt moved his head, listening, but the movements of half a dozen men and horses prevented him from hearing or smelling anything useful. He wondered if she was asking in order to see if some enchantment she’d woven was working properly. He didn’t answer. 

“See, isn’t that odd?” That was Jaskier again. “Remembering some things and not others.”

“May I see?” Yennefer stepped closer.

“She means touch you,” Jaskier put in. 

Geralt gritted his teeth, but he wasn’t certain there was any point to resisting. The sorceress would do what she wanted anyway. But she did wait for Geralt to nod before she put her hands on either side of his face. His medallion vibrated against his chest as she pressed her fingertips into his skin, and the sensation left a warm, savory flavor in his mouth. After a moment, she drew her hands away and hummed speculatively.

“What?” Jaskier asked. 

“Magic like this can be symbolic, metaphorical.” The sorceress’s voice was thoughtful, but she didn’t seem hopeless. “The curse is obviously tied to his eyesight. Blinding him might also have kept him from seeing other things.”

“Doesn’t blindness, by definition, keep one from seeing?” Jaskier asked with a note of sarcasm. 

“Seeing symbolically, Jaskier. Seeing what’s close, what’s right in front of your face.”

“Like you and me, for example,” Jaskier said.

“You needn’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Geralt put in. 

“Well, if you act like you’re not here, it’s difficult to remember,” Yennefer said crisply. “Speak up if you have something to say. It’s much harder to translate your brooding without being able to see your eyes.”

Geralt was surprised to feel a kind of fond amusement rather than anger at her rebuke, but he gave no outward sign.

“Well, come inside. Jaskier, the horses?”

“Of course.” Jaskier held out a hand, and Geralt reluctantly handed over Roach’s reins. 

“Come along, Geralt.” The sorceress didn’t try to lead him by the hand, only walked away and assumed he’d be able to follow. He wasn’t sure if that irritated him more or less than Jaskier’s officious offerings of assistance. 

“I’ll take you to your room,” Yennefer said once they’d passed into the building’s interior. He carefully committed to memory all the turns they made and stairs they ascended, in case he needed to find the way out on his own. “It’s been kept largely as you left it. I’ll have the servants bring you something to eat, and you can have a bath in the morning.”

The walls of the building suddenly felt oppressive compared to the freedom he’d had on the road. He may have made a mistake not trying to escape before, if this sorceress meant to keep him on a short leash. “Yes mistress,” Geralt said bitterly.

Yennefer stopped walking, and Geralt almost ran into her. She turned and stood silently, and Geralt dearly wished he could see her expression. “Do you still think Jaskier bought you just so we could keep you for ourselves?”

Geralt said nothing. He could think of no other reason why they would want him. Even if they knew him, as seemed to be the case, what could they want from him in this state aside from using him as Lord Iwen had? Certainly whatever they wanted from him wouldn’t be pleasant, or they wouldn’t be making such an effort to win him over.

Yennefer reached out and put her small hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch away from her, because he wasn’t afraid of her, not really. This close he could smell her hair, the scent of lilac and gooseberries that drifted in his vision like violet haze and left a tart flavor in his mouth. 

“You may not remember this, but I am an extremely good sorceress. If magic did this, I can find a way to undo it. But I would appreciate it if you would give us the benefit of the doubt. If we wanted to hurt you, we could have left you with Lord Iwen.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because we couldn’t,” Yennefer snapped. Her voice sounded strained, though he couldn’t identify the emotion it held. “Come along.”

She pushed open a door at the end of the hallway, and held it open for him as he stepped inside. “This is your room. Most everything is as you left it.”

It smelled homey, a bit like leather and herbs, which sent a fuzzy brown pattern blurring across his vision. The room did seem a bit familiar, perhaps, but maybe that was just the sorceress, weaving some sort of a spell to make him comfortable and docile. “And I’m not allowed to leave this room.”

“You’re not a prisoner, Geralt,” Yennefer said with a sigh. “You can go where you like on the property, but please don’t leave the grounds for now. The fewer people who see you the better; until we can reverse what was done to you, I don’t want word to get back to Iwen where you are and who you’re with. Jaskier will keep you company and get you anything you need.”

“I don’t want his company.”

“No one’s going to try to bed you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Least of all Jaskier.”

Geralt huffed out a bitter laugh. 

“And if he does, tell me, and I’ll turn him into a toad.” Yennefer moved further into the room and threw herself down on what seemed to be an overstuffed chair with a thwump. “Now, what else can you tell me about what they did to you? Anything you know might be useful in reversing the effect.” She waited a few moments while Geralt weighed whether or not he could hope for any good to come of sharing information with this woman. “Or are you thinking you can fix this on your own?”

“I don’t know anything else,” he lied. He didn’t want this sorceress to know that his perception was more thoroughly compromised than was obvious. 

“But clearly you remember some things,” Yennefer pressed. “Your own name. Your horse. I’m only a little insulted that you remember Roach and not me. And Jaskier says you remember Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt moved further into the room and followed the warmth and crackle of a fire to stand by the hearth. He tightened his jaw as his mind turned over why these strangers, who shouldn’t even know Kaer Morhen existed, spoke of it with such casual familiarity. “Why haven't you told the other witchers about me?”

“Who says we haven't told the other witchers about you?” Yennefer asked. “When we found out where you were, I sent word to Vesemir. But what use would the other witchers have been in retrieving you? Do you think Lambert would have done a good job in pretending to be a client of Lord Iwen’s? Would Eskel have been able to hide you in plain sight while you travelled? I think not. And what would they do here now other than frown and fret? Besides, the passes won’t clear for another few weeks.” 

“And what if I don't believe you?” Geralt decided there wasn’t much use in prevaricating with this woman. She didn’t seem quite as eager to believe his docility as Jaskier had been.

“Whether you believe me or not is immaterial,” she said. “Wait and see for yourself. If I haven’t figured out your situation in a few weeks, we’ll have to try something else anyway. Geralt...” She stood and stepped towards him, but stopped a few feet away. “I am pleased to see you. I’m pleased you’re not dead.”

“I’m glad I can please you, mistress.”

“Fine.” Her voice sounded tight, and he felt a kind of grim satisfaction at having annoyed her. “Now, you need to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

She stood silently, and Geralt could almost feel the force of her glare. Geralt wondered if this was the moment when she would just compel him to obey. It had to come sometime. If she was the source of the magic Jaskier had used, her casting the spell directly would almost certainly be more powerful. Perhaps it would be better if it happened now, when he was ready. Then he would know the strength of the spell, and could perhaps work out a way to fight it.

The sorceress released a short, quick breath, turned away, and walked to the door. “It does lock,” she said, patting the solid wooden door. “And I won’t be offended if you use Yrden.”

Geralt tensed, wondering if she was going to ask him any more about the Signs, and how much she might know about his capabilities, or current lack thereof. But she just stood there for another long moment, unmoving, and then said, “I’d like to talk to you again tomorrow, if you’re willing.”

“As you wish, mistress.”

“How did I know you were going to be impossible?” she sighed. She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her, leaving Geralt to ponder the meaning of that statement.  
\--

Jaskier plunged into the scalding bath, not caring that water slopped over the sides of the tub as he did so. He set to immediately with a linen cloth and the soft soap Yennefer kept stocked, scrubbing the dirt of the road from his skin and hoping it would take with it the feeling of being soiled and filthy that had clung to him since leaving Lord Iwen’s estate. 

He dunked his head under the water, then threw his hair back out of his eyes and raked a hand back through his hair, dragging at the tangles as he went. He tried not to imagine the feel of running a comb through Geralt’s long hair, newly washed, as Geralt pretended to be irritated by the procedure but sunk into a blissful stupor under his hands. He wouldn’t be asked to wash Geralt’s hair anytime soon, even if he’d had any to wash. 

Jaskier had thought perhaps Geralt had started to thaw towards him and offer a bit of tentative trust. But since this morning, he’d been cold and contemptuous, acting again as if Jaskier were his jailer. Jaskier searched his memory for anything he’d said or done that might have upset Geralt, and came up with nothing. Nothing aside from, of course, everything he’d done to Geralt while in Lord Iwen’s company. And that was plenty of motivation for Geralt to shun him, Jaskier had to admit. 

He sank lower in the water and scrubbed at the back of his neck furiously as he tried to ignore his rapidly pounding heart. It was dreadfully inconvenient that Geralt currently hated him, because one thing that had historically been effective in dragging Jaskier out of a spiraling panic was Geralt’s close physical proximity. Being wrapped in the unreasonably muscular arms of a fearsome witcher did have a way of making one feel safe and protected.

_“I’m fine. I’m not even bleeding anymore.” Geralt had insisted on using a few buckets to wash off the worst of the filth and blood before climbing into the bath, and it was true that the water wasn’t clouded with blood the way it sometimes was after Geralt returned from a fight. Still, the sight wasn’t enough to calm Jaskier’s nerves, with the memory of Geralt’s neck ripped open and gushing blood still fresh in his mind._

_“But you were,” Jaskier pointed out. He stood behind Geralt so he could gather his hair to the side and get a good look at the jagged, barely-closed wound that was sure to become a scar. “Quite a lot, in fact. An alarming amount.”_

_“It looked worse than it was.” Geralt cupped his hands and splashed some water on his face. The droplets caught and pooled around the raised skin of the wound._

_“It looked very bad, Geralt. Very, very bad.”_

_“I’m fine. Come here.”_

_“Hey!” Jaskier protested as Geralt hauled him over the side of the tub and into the water, and spared a stray thought to be thankful he’d already stripped off most of his clothes. He sputtered and flailed, but Geralt drew Jaskier back against him, wrapping an arm around his chest and holding him in place._

_“Stop it.” He held Jaskier firmly until he stopped squirming and let himself slump against Geralt. “I really am fine.”_

_“You could have died.”_

_“That happens a lot.”_

_“Not in front of me,” Jaskier said quietly._

_“Fair.” Geralt tightened his grip and squeezed Jaskier closer. “I’ll try not to die in front of you.”_

_“I’d rather if you would try not to die altogether. It was very unpleasant to think you might.”_

_“Well, we wouldn’t want you to face any unpleasantness.”_

_“I mean it.” Jaskier craned his head around to glare at Geralt. “Don’t die.”_

_“I’ll try.” Geralt took Jaskier’s chin in his hand and kissed him firmly and thoroughly, until Jaskier’s pulse was racing for a different reason altogether._

_“I’m supposed to be getting you clean, you know,” Jaskier said weakly._

_“That can wait.” Geralt’s hand dipped between Jaskier’s legs and inside his soaked breeches to take him in hand. “I didn’t say thank you for the rescue.”_

_“You don’t have to thank me. I barely did--ahhhh.” He lost his train of thought as Geralt swirled his thumb around the head of Jaskier’s cock, and his blood rushed southwards._

_“If you hadn’t distracted the vukodlak when you did, I would have been dead.”_

_“Can we not--ah--talk about your horrible, gruesome death right now?”_

_“Of course. What should we talk about?” Geralt whispered, his lips brushing Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier shuddered against him, and his hips bucked up into Geralt’s firm, steady hand. “Or could it be I’ve shut you up?”_

_“Please,” Jaskier gasped. He could feel Geralt’s hardness against his ass, and he licked his lips, resolving that he would have what he wanted just as soon as they were out of the bath. “Please.”_

_“Anything,” Geralt breathed, and twisted his hand around Jaskier’s cock in just the right way to have him panting and shouting as he climaxed. He slumped back against Geralt’s chest, regaining his breath._

_“You’re supposed to be taking it easy, healing,” Jaskier said eventually._

_“I’ll survive.” Geralt released his grip on Jaskier and leaned back against the lip of the tub. “Now come on, someone has to scrub my back.”_

Jaskier raked a hand through his hair and shook off droplets of water. He shouldn’t be thinking of that. At a time like this, he shouldn’t be torturing himself with memories of Geralt’s former interest in him. He didn’t have the right. 

“Jaskier,” came a voice from behind him. 

He scrubbed at his hands with the cloth. The skin looked clean, but he knew it wasn’t. Not yet.

“Jaskier, stop.”

He would. He’d stop, just as soon as he got it all off.

“Damnit, Jaskier.” A few sharp words in the Elder Speech and a complicated gesture caught out of the corner of his eye, and the water in the tub surged away in a rush, dragging with it the puddles on the floor and the droplets clinging to the wooden sides. The mass crashed towards the drain in the corner of the bathouse that would channel the water outside. 

Then Yennefer stepped into the dry tub, kneeling down with her dress pooling around her. She draped a linen towel around Jaskier’s shoulders and drew him towards her. 

“I’ll get you wet,” he muttered.

“It won’t be the most annoyance you’ve ever caused me.”

Jaskier clung to her as his breath slowed and his heart pounded less forcefully. He didn’t realize he’d been so worked up. Her strong arms around him and the brush of her hair against his shoulder helped ground him. She was solid and real, and she wasn’t letting go.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“You brought him back,” Yennefer said. She stroked a hand through his damp hair, and he leaned into it, pathetically grateful for the comfort. “You did exactly as we planned.”

“I hurt him.”

“We knew you might have to. What did you think those lessons with the belt were for?” she asked with a hint of her usual caustic sarcasm. Perversely, that made him feel a little better, that Yen didn’t feel the need to coddle him. “You did so well. I knew you would.”

“No, you didn’t.” Jaskier could easily call to mind her exasperation as she tried to instruct him in the proper use of a cane, glaring like she would much rather be demonstrating on his hide.

“Yes, I did, idiot. I wouldn’t have let you go if I thought you couldn’t do it.”

The praise shouldn’t have warmed him as much as it did. He sat up and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You’ve earned a little whingeing.” She climbed out of the tub and offered him a hand for support, which he did not refuse. He tucked the towel around his hips and dropped onto the bench that lined the bathhouse wall.

“Did he do that?” Yennefer asked, inclining her head towards Jaskier’s neck. 

“Oh, yes.” He couldn’t see the bruises Geralt’s hands had left, but they were still sore to the touch. “Bit of a mistaken identity thing.”

“Well done surviving, then.” She walked away to retrieve something from the cupboard near the door, and returned with a little jar of salve. “This will help. So what didn’t you tell me in your note?” she asked as she began to rub the salve into the tenderest spots on his neck.

“Almost everything.” He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. “It was awful and I never want to do that again.”

“All right. What else?” She pushed his head to the side so she could better reach the bruises on the back of his neck, and Jaskier moved where she put him. 

“Spells worked fine.”

“Of course they did. They were my spells.” She screwed the top back onto the salve, set it aside, commandeered a corner of Jakier’s towel to wipe off her hands, then sat next to him on the bench. “What else?”

Jaskier leaned forward and stared at the floor. He didn’t want to picture being back there in that room, with Geralt kneeling before him, his face a mask of rage. “I thought he might know me. While it was happening, I thought he might. Of course he didn’t. But perhaps I just didn't want to think about what it would mean if he didn't.”

“It means he's here now, and no one will do anything like that to him again.” She wrapped one of her hands around his and held it tight. “It means we succeeded.”

“Right. Right.” Jaskier leaned his head against her shoulder and breathed in the smell of her perfume. “How is he?”

“Asleep, hopefully. He would be for sure if I’d put a sleep spell on him.” When Jaskier made a disapproving noise, she clarified, “It would have been just a little one.”

“We shouldn't do that. Shouldn't bespell him. Shouldn’t do things he doesn’t want.” He squeezed her hand, so she’d know he wasn’t angry at her. The gods knew he had no right to throw stones in that regard. “I mean it, Yennefer. Don’t do that.”

“It really would have been just a little one. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed.”

“That’s not better, Yen. That is actually worse.”

“He won't heal if he doesn't sleep. And he doesn’t trust us enough to sleep right now.”

“Of course he doesn’t. Not after what I did. We’re strangers to him. But he’ll have to trust one of us eventually. And we’re not worth trusting if we’re just going to do all the same things his captors did.” 

“He’d heal quicker if he’d just cooperate,” Yennefer muttered.

“And that is why you are truly terrifying.” Jaskier pulled away so he could see her face. “Please promise me that you won’t do spells on him. Please.”

“I promise,” she said, and he lay his head back down on her shoulder. “But do you think that the person he decides to trust will be the sorceress with mind-altering magic?”

“It’s not going to be me, that’s clear. Step away from the incredibly unnecessary mind-altering magic so he can pick you.”

“He’s not going to pick one of us. He’ll decide we’re both faithless deceivers or that we are who we say we are. We come as a set.”

“In that case, stop making our set look bad by plotting to knock him out with magic.” Jaskier poked Yennefer in the side, and she poked him back harder. His chuckle trailed off almost before it started. “Ah, never mind, I know I’m clearly the weak link here in terms of wrongs we’ve done Geralt so far.” He sat up and leaned against the wall again. “So do you have any idea? What’s wrong with him, I mean?”

“Not yet.” She didn’t sound particularly worried, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t, Jaskier knew. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to him again. He wasn’t able to tell me much about the mage who laid the curse, but if I ask him about it again when he’s less on his guard, I might be able to see a bit more than he remembers.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier warned. “You promised--”

“It’s not a spell,” she said quickly. “It’s practically a reflex. Like a witcher’s senses.”

“Would you want someone you didn’t know looking around in your thoughts?” Jaskier countered. “Really?”

“Fine. I will not intentionally try to read him.” She stood and straightened her dress. “But you should be used to it.”

“Oooh.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re here to find out about the things I didn’t notice at Lord Iwen’s, aren’t you.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re alright, but I wouldn’t say no to that, either.”

“Fine.” Jaskier gave a dramatic sigh, so she’d know he wouldn’t allow this any old time, and pushed to his feet. “Let me put on clothes, then you can rummage through my mind as much as you like.”  
\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your kind comments so far. They make my stony little heart go pitter-pat. Next bit to be posted on Saturday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Thanks for all your support of this story so far! As you may notice, I've updated the chapter count, because Geralt and Jaskier had some other things to say, so uh, we're looking at about 30,000 total for this fic. Anyway, continued thanks to hobbit and jaunechat for their assistance and editing help!

Geralt woke up alone, with none of the soreness that meant he’d been used while he was out cold. He lay in bed for several minutes with his eyes closed, listening, but his senses were too muddled to make out anything beyond this room. He’d needed the sleep desperately, but he hadn’t been happy about leaving himself vulnerable in a strange place. The door locked from the inside, as the sorceress had said, and they seemed to have left him alone, so it had been a calculated risk that turned out well this time. Now he was able to take his time exploring the room and taking stock of its contents.

He opened the wardrobe and found several sets of clothes that, by the feel of the stitching, seemed expertly tailored. There was also a pair of sturdy leather boots that fit as if they’d been made to order. An old set of armor, much repaired and worn thin, occupied an armor stand in the corner, and a weapons rack held a bow, an assortment of daggers, and a decoratively carved spear. Apparently his captors’ confidence extended to the ability to control him no matter what weapons he held. That certainly didn’t bode well for his escape prospects.

Geralt redressed in clothes from the wardrobe, which fit him much better than the cast-offs from the innkeeper's son. Though he resisted putting on the armor, he did arm himself with a few of the smaller knives. Then he decided he may as well face whatever his captors wanted from him today. 

He opened the door and nearly tripped over someone sitting on the floor.

“Oh, Master Geralt, you’re awake!” The child--for that was certainly what this was-- stood up quickly, smelling of baking bread that also felt like a sticky sensation on Geralt’s skin. “Miss bade me wait for you and guide you wherever you want to go, in case you don’t know where things are, like. Do you want some breakfast? Kitchen is this way.” 

The child grabbed his hand. Geralt fought the urge to snatch it back and allowed himself to be tugged along. Not a guard, then, but a little shadow set to watch him, A little shadow that would report back to Yennefer, no doubt. 

“I’m Essa, the housekeeper’s daughter,” the child continued, oblivious to his irritation. “Miss said that you might not know that, even though you should. Like after Mikal got kicked into the wall by that stud last spring and hit his head. Here, just down these steps. Don’t trip! Ha, like you would ever trip.” She dragged him down a spiraling staircase, and he kept a hand against the wall to keep from doing just that. 

His obedience was rewarded with a seat in the kitchen at a small table by the hearth. This place might be larger than Geralt had realized, because there were several servants bustling around at this hour, chatting and laughing as they worked. He could feel their curious looks, but no one bothered him. He worked his way through the generous bowl of pottage, thick with onions and chunks of meat, that the cook brought him, and let Essa’s chatter wash over him. 

Geralt wished he dared ask her some of the many questions he had about the household: how many guards and where were they stationed? What hours did the sorceress keep? How far to the nearest town? But he had no expectation that what he asked would be kept in confidence, so he kept silent instead.

With only a little bribery in the form of a hot buttered roll, he left his little shadow in the kitchen and walked through the courtyard towards the smell of horses. There was at least one creature in this place he’d be happy to see. 

As he entered the stable, he heard a voice that came with golden curves and washes invading his vision. Irritation pricked at his senses as he strode down the central aisle, looking for Roach’s stall. That irritation flared into anger when he recognized Jaskier’s voice, paired with the rasp of a brush against Roach’s hide. 

Geralt stopped in front of the stall, and heard Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, I--”

“Don’t touch Roach,” he snapped, and felt a grim satisfaction at hearing Jaskier step quickly away through the straw.

“Sorry. I, uh, didn’t realize you were coming.”

“Am I allowed to be here?”

“Of course.” Jaskier shuffled his feet, but made no move to leave. “I didn’t mean to… I’m usually here in the mornings.”

“Do you often muck out stalls, prince?”

“I’m not a-- No. I usually take Roach out for some exercise. She’s not keen on the stable lads riding her.” He paused, then added, “And she’s a good listener.”

Geralt breathed in, looking for the information scent usually gave him. He couldn’t smell lust or fear like he used to, not directly, but he’d learned that the scent of lust was an itch between his shoulder blades, and fear was a dull red shine in his sightless eyes. The scent here registered as a rich, earthy taste and a drifting swirl of pearly light he couldn’t interpret. Not fear. Jaskier was simply talking to him as if we were a friend, as if he expected Geralt not to mind that he was here, blocking access to the only creature in this thrice-damned place that Geralt actually cared to talk to. As if Geralt should want to talk to him. 

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” Geralt demanded. “Is it because you think you could control me again if you wanted to?”

“No,” Jaskier said, and it came out as a chuckle. He was laughing-- laughing at the idea that he might be afraid of Geralt.

Geralt took three quick strides past Roach and shoved Jaskier into the side of the stall with a hand against his chest. Jaskier slammed back against the wood with a satisfying thump, and Roach snorted. 

Geralt leaned in, looming as much as the small space allowed. “Even blind, I could hurt you,” he said.

“I know that.” Jaskier’s voice sounded raspy, perhaps still damaged from Geralt’s attack in the inn. “I really do.”

“You just don’t think I will.” That was almost worse: this false friend so confident that Geralt had been taken in by his deception, so sure he’d tamed the gullible witcher. Geralt felt fury pushing against the bounds of his restraint.

“That’s not what I meant.” Jaskier tried to push away from the wall, but Geralt braced his arm across Jaskier’s chest and leaned on it, pinning him to the wall. 

“I could make you do what I wanted, without magic to aid me.”

Jaskier stopped resisting, and slumped back against the wall. He drew in a labored breath and said, “You can hurt me if you want. You can fuck me if you want. I won’t fight you.” Then he just stood there, like he thought he deserved whatever Geralt did to him. And still he didn’t smell afraid. 

Geralt dearly wanted to hit the man, to see if he would at last learn fear. But instead he gave Jaskier one last firm shove and turned his back. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Go away.”

Geralt stood in the stall with his arms crossed, listening to Jaskier’s slow, heavy footsteps as he left through the stable yard. Roach blew air out through her nose and shook her head. 

“Stop complaining.” Geralt scratched her between the ears, and she leaned her head into him. “I wasn’t actually going to hurt him.” What had he wanted, then? For Jaskier to feel even a fraction of the unease and misery he’d felt as a slave in Lord Iwen’s household? To show the man he wasn’t as docile as they seemed to think? To gain back a modicum of control by threatening someone weaker than himself?

He pressed his face against Roach’s neck and sighed. For a long time, he hadn’t needed to decide anything except how to react to what others did to him. They’d taken every other choice away. If his new captors were going to allow him more freedom, he needed to start remembering he was a witcher, or at least he used to be. The deceitfulness and pettiness of others was no excuse to use his abilities, such as they were, against humans who were only the regular kind of monstrous. 

Roach turned her head to lip at Geralt’s sleeve. “I know, I’m sorry I interrupted your grooming. I’ll make it up to you.” He stroked a hand across Roach’s withers and realized he hadn't thought to ask where anything was in the stable. Well that was fine. He would figure it out on his own.

_Geralt lay slumped on his side, watching muddy colors dripping sluggishly across his field of vision. On top of the tinctures they usually gave him, which served to disorient him and slow his reflexes, tonight’s guest, Duke Gorsky, had been rather more interested in beating Geralt than in fucking him, though of course he’d found time for both._

_Geralt’s head rang unpleasantly, and he could smell blood, which left a metallic taste in his mouth. He would heal, of course. He always healed. Others weren’t so lucky._

_Last night Geralt hadn’t been sufficiently docile when brought to entertain Duke Gorsky. The man had ended up with a black eye and a split lip, and one of his attendants had endured quite a few broken bones, if Geralt’s hearing hadn't deceived him. The guards had managed to restrain Geralt and wrestle him back down to his cell with much cursing._

_The cell mate they’d recently given him was a dryad named Petra. She washed the blood off of Geralt’s face with a scrap torn from her shirt and scolded him. “You keep hitting them, they will hit you back harder. Don’t you know they can always hit harder? You need to learn when to lie down.”_

_“I’ve never been good at that,” Geralt muttered as he tried not to flinch away from her not-so-gentle touch._

_“Trees in a grove break the wind of a storm together. Tree on its own must bend or fall down.”_

_Geralt grunted noncommittally._

_“You want to live, Gwynbleidd?” She smacked him on the shoulder, and he growled at her, but she continued undeterred. “Someday get out of here and not disappoint the ones that care about you? You should learn.”_

_Just before dawn, when Geralt was dozing fitfully in the corner of the cell, the guards came back and dragged Petra away. Geralt snapped awake when the door to their cell slammed shut. He was on his feet and straining at the fetter around his ankle when he heard Lord Iwen’s voice on the far side of the bars._

_“And here I’d heard that witchers weren’t mindless animals, and could control their violent impulses,” he drawled. His voice sounded like the smell of heated metal. “Goes to show you can’t believe everything you hear in songs.”_

_“Where are you taking the dryad?” Geralt asked. He couldn't move as far as the bars of the cell, chained as he was, but he dearly wished he could grab Iwen by the throat and choke an answer out of him._

_“It seems you’ve grown quite fond of the creature. I wish you were half as concerned with the welfare of our guests as you are with hers.”_

_“She has better manners,” Geralt said dryly._

_“Let me make this clear to you, witcher. You will behave yourself with Duke Gorsky tonight and give him every accommodation he requires.” Iwen’s voice had grown so quiet Geralt had to strain to hear it. “If you do not, it’s not you who will suffer for it. Do you understand my meaning?”_

_He did. Of course he did. Geralt had known many men like Iwen, and he should not have been surprised by this development. And yet he was. “Yes,” he said shortly._

_“Then let us hope, for the sake of your dryad friend, that I receive a favorable report of your behavior.”_

_Geralt had done his best to comply this evening, though he’d spent much of the time thinking about how he would hurt the duke if he could. He shifted position to lessen the pressure on his knee against the bare stone floor, and rubbed his face against his shoulder to wipe away a trickle of blood from his mouth. His whole body ached, and his shoulders felt full of shattered glass, awkwardly positioned as they were by way his arms had been tied. Even so, he could have stood up and attacked Duke Gorsky where he stood chatting next to the hearth with Lord Iwen. His reflexes weren’t so bad that he couldn’t kill, or at least mortally wound, both men before the guards could bring him down._

_But there were many humans who deserved death that he’d refrained from killing over the years, no matter how satisfying it would have been. Witchers’ abilities were meant to fight monsters, sometimes even human ones, but not for personal revenge. And certainly Geralt's abilities weren’t meant to spare Geralt himself some negligible pain at the expense of an innocent bystander. He might even consider this a small way he could follow the Path, even in this place: protecting against monsters and taking the risk of harm upon himself, because he was capable of enduring more._

_Geralt barely flinched when Lord Iwen patted his bare shoulder on the way out of the room and said, “There, that wasn’t so hard.”_

_When they dragged him back to his cell, Petra helped clean his wounds again, and this time did so a little more gently._

As Geralt felt his way down the row of stalls to the tack room at the end of the stable, he became aware of a presence behind him: the tart-sweet perfume of the sorceress. He ignored her and stepped into the tack room, but she followed, undeterred.

“Why do you treat him like that?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt suppressed a flinch. She had no right to ask for his tolerance. Geralt would try to have a bit of restraint for his own reasons, but his captors had no right to ask it of him. “Why shouldn't I?”

“Because he cares for you.”

“He’s shown it very strangely,” Geralt snapped, thinking of the magical charm in Jaskier’s coin purse, and his easy, false kindness. 

“Are you talking about what he did to get you from Lord Iwen?”

“What do you know about it?” Geralt turned his back on her and groped along the shelves of the tack room for a brush.

“At least as much as you do. He let me see what happened. I know it wasn’t easy for either of you. Here.” Yennefer placed a brush in his hand, and he frowned at it. “If that is why you're holding a grudge against him, you may as well be angry with me. The plan was my idea, and I told him everything he should do.”

“Yours,” Geralt said slowly.

“Yes. I served at court a long time. I know how spoiled princes behave. And I'll tell you, it was a great deal of work to get Jaskier to agree to what we did. I had to bend him far out of his natural shape to make it possible for him to retrieve you. He doesn't have much cruelty in him, that one. Even though I think it would be useful for him to learn.”

Geralt didn’t want to listen to this. Jaskier wasn’t some innocent bystander; he was a fully capable human who’d done what he’d done to Geralt of his own free will. “His is the hand that struck the blow,” he growled, and pushed past Yennefer out of the tack room. 

He clutched the brush as if for protection as he strode back to Roach’s stall, but the sorceress followed him there, too, leaning against the stall door as she observed him. “Would you blame the sword instead of the wielder?” she asked.

Geralt huffed and applied the brush to Roach’s back.

“He was willing to do what was needed to free you, but he wouldn't have known how without me. So if you will persist in hating him, I would appreciate an equal share of the blame.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t quite muster the same amount of rage towards her as he felt towards “Prince Kacper,” but if she kept on like this, he would manage. He channeled his frustration into long vigorous strokes of the brush, but very little dirt came free. Perversely, it stoked his ill feelings towards Jaskier to have even the simple pleasure of grooming his horse reduced to a vain, hollow gesture. He stopped and held the brush in his hand, tightening his fingers around it until the wooden handle dug painfully into his skin.

Yennefer was still standing there, as if she had nothing better to do than antagonize him. Perhaps she didn’t. It seemed both Yennefer and Jaskier were willing to expend as much time and energy as necessary to get Geralt to do whatever it was they wanted him to do. 

“Now that that's out of the way,” she said evenly, “I came here to invite you to my workshop.”

“Experimenting on a witcher?” His skin prickled, but he didn’t feel the vibration of his medallion that would signal a spell being worked. 

“Trying to get your sight back. Unless you’d rather I didn’t?”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t expect it was actually possible to refuse. He considered trying, just to see how the sorceress would respond. But it wouldn’t be worth the petty satisfaction of piercing her polite facade if it meant ending up shackled in a dungeon again. “Fine.” He followed her silently out of the stable, braced for a deeply unpleasant morning.  
\--

Jaskier stared down at the lute in his lap. The wood was soothingly smooth under his fingers. He should start to tune, he knew. It was going to take a devilishly long time, with all these changes in the weather, and having been away for a fortnight. But he did not touch the tuning pegs. 

He should try composing a new song. That would take his mind off things. It was how he worked through problems. And when was the last time he had played? He found he couldn't quite recall. Maybe he could just sing something then to warm up. A tune he knew well. He hummed a few notes, but they dropped off into the heavy silence, and he stopped. 

He would play tomorrow, he decided.

Instead, he went to look for Yennefer and found her in her workshop, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap. “Yen?” he called. 

She waved a hand absently, and he came closer. 

“Did you talk to him?”

She nodded.

“Find out anything interesting?”

She nodded again. 

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fix anything,” she said brightly, and looked at Jaskier at last. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and her eyes were wet.

Jaskier made a distressed noise in the back of his throat, and hurried over to occupy a neighboring patch of floor. He pulled her against his chest, and she allowed it. At first, she remained stiff and unbending as an affronted cat, but he knew from experience if he stayed quiet and stroked her hair, she might let herself be comforted.

He tried not to let his thoughts dwell on her unhappiness, as he imagined she was generating enough of that herself, and she’d complained before about his emotions being too damn loud. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured something soothing: riding in the woods with Geralt. Twittering birds, the song of the leaves, the rhythm of the horses’ footfalls and the squeak of leather. When he turned his attention back to the moment, Yennefer had curled into Jaskier’s side and slung an arm around his neck. 

“So,” Jaskier said quietly. “We can’t break the curse.”

“I didn’t say that. But it is _beautiful_ magic, Jaskier. Intricate, elegant. Whoever crafted it had talent and skill.”

“And we’re sure it’s magical blindness, not something physical?”

“Oh, it’s not just blindness.” Yennefer sat up and grabbed his hand. “All of his senses are affected.”

“But…” Jaskier frowned, thinking of his interactions with Geralt over the past days. “He can hear, he can--”

“Not as well as he should be able to, not as well as he used to. By far.” She dragged the book she’d been looking at over to lay it out in front of them, and pointed at a hand-drawn diagram sketched in the margins that meant nothing to Jaskier. “Touch is affected as well. Smell and taste I didn’t analyze, but they must be included. When I looked at your memories, I saw glimpses of it in his reactions.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Jaskier had assumed Geralt’s enhanced senses had allowed him to ride Roach on his own, move around the grounds, and generally take care of himself. Obviously he’d been managing somehow. But then again, Jaskier knew why Geralt wouldn’t have told him. Never show an enemy your weakness. He was an enemy to Geralt, or at least, not a friend.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t tell me either,” Yen said. “I confirmed it through testing.” At Jaskier’s alarmed look, she added, “Perfectly harmless, non-invasive testing.”

“Well, is that good or bad?” Jaskier asked. 

“Neither. It just is.” She rose gracefully from the floor, and Jaskier followed somewhat more unsteadily, stopping to stretch the complaining muscles of his back. “Wine?”

“Why not,” he said, rubbing at a sore spot on his neck. 

“It’s in the cupboard.”

With a theatrical sigh, Jaskier went to retrieve the wine, and poured them both a glass. He carried them over to where Yennefer was flipping through a book at her work table, and handed her one. “So, why doesn’t he remember us?”

Yennefer gulped down half the glass of wine and began to pace. “What’s amazing is that they’ve woven all the senses together somehow.”

“So, no answer on the memory thing, then?” Jaskier leaned against the work table and watched her pace, which seemed to happen whenever she was working out some particularly complicated magic.

“Now, switching two senses, that would be simple.”

“Would it?” 

“But these are inconsistent. They’re not just misplaced or switched, they’re tangled. To do that you’d need some sort of internal anchor, some balance to keep the threads from pulling apart.”

“Right, sure.” 

“An anchor…” Yennefer stopped and sipped absently at her wine. “I’m thinking of something my teacher told me once. About mages and their emotions.”

“Is that… good?” Jaskier asked. He was waiting for the part where Yennefer explained any of this to him. 

“I need to do some travelling.” She set down her wine on the work table, grabbed a leather satchel, and began shoving books into it.

“All right.” Jaskier set down his own wine. “Do you need--”

“I need you to keep an eye on Geralt.” She shoved a few loose pages into her bag, then looked down at her dress and sighed. “That won’t do.”

“Yen, he can’t stand to be in the same room as me.”

“Don’t worry.” She snatched up another dress that had been tossed over the back of a chair, and began to strip off her clothes. “After today I don’t think he likes me much either.” 

Jaskier gave an aggrieved sigh and turned his back. “What happened to team effort?” He shook his head. “Not the point. He doesn’t want me near him.”

“Well, I don’t want my lover to have no memory of me. We can’t all get what we want. Help me with this.”

He turned around again and worked on tightening the laces on the back of her gown while she fussed with some buttons. “Yen, I’m not--”

“Jaskier, you’re the only one I trust to do this.”

“Not fair,” he muttered as he finished tying the laces. 

“Besides, you just have to make sure he doesn’t leave, and doesn’t come to harm.” She grabbed a necklace from next to a vial of bright orange liquid on the work table and held it up against her neck speculatively. “It shouldn’t be difficult.”

A strangled whine escaped him. “Why would you say that?” He stepped up behind her to fasten the clasp of her necklace. “I don’t suppose this is an errand I could run for you?”

“Tissaia doesn’t like you.” Yennefer stepped in front of the standing mirror in the corner of the room, and nodded approvingly. “Not bad.”

“I thought she’d find the song flattering,” Jaskier muttered as he handed her the satchel stuffed full of books. 

“Goodbye. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She turned away, but Jaskier called, “Wait.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Good luck.”

She rolled her eyes at him, then turned and summoned a portal into which she disappeared.

Jaskier let out a long breath and looked around the empty workroom as he considered his task. He’d always been good at figuring out what Geralt wanted. True, this situation might require more than his usual amount of discretion, but as Yennefer had pointed out, there was no one else to do the job.

_”What about this one? Pris-kim… prys-kir…” Jaskier squinted over at the ancient bestiary he’d swiped from the university library. “Pryskirnik.”_

_“Pryskirnik,” Geralt muttered. Oxenfurt’s quarters for visiting lecturers were quite comfortable, which Jaskier usually appreciated, but at the moment he thought Geralt might be in danger of falling asleep, sprawled as he was on such a soft bed._

_From his place astride Geralt’s hips, he poked Geralt in the side. “Yes, pryskirnik. Or do you forfeit?”_

_“I never forfeit. The proskurnik is an insectoid creature with a hard carapace and dangerous claws on four of its twelve legs. Excellent at stealth, often move in a pack. Susceptible to plain steel. Quite rare. May be extinct by now.”_

_“Bravo.” Jaskier slid his thumbs up both sides of Geralt’s naked back, wringing a lazy groan out of him. “And I thought an older book was going to be a challenge.”_

_“I’m old,” Geralt mumbled into the pillow, then sighed as Jaskier’s fingers found a stubborn knot in his shoulder. “Yes, there.”_

_“I know.” Jaskier was likely the world’s leading expert on giving back massages to Geralt of Rivia. “Shall we do another one?”_

_Geralt gave a grunt of protest, but otherwise lay still and enjoyed Jaskier’s ministrations._

_“Next one will be ten in a row,” Jaskier coaxed. “If you get it, I’ll give you a prize.”_

_Geralt craned his neck to look back at Jaskier. “I get to pick the prize.”_

_“Within reason,” Jaskier said, knowing he’d already won. “Though it’s not very suspenseful. You always want the same thing. Getting predictable in your old age.”_

_“Go on.” Geralt settled back down into his pillow._

_Jaskier leaned over and flipped a few random pages until he found a likely-looking entry. “Right. This one’s the Nachtkrapp.”_

_“Large undead bird. Often in the form of an owl. No eyes. Can cause disease if bitten. Requires silver to kill. Now give me my prize.”_

_Jaskier laughed and dropped a kiss against Geralt’s shoulder. “Eager.” He threaded his hands through Geralt’s loose hair to rub at his scalp. “Your brain is incredibly sexy.”_

_“Is that the only part of me you find sexy?” Geralt rolled his hips, shoving his ass up invitingly._

_Jaskier laughed. He loved Geralt in this mood--drunk on sex, playful, and at ease with the world for once. Jaskier slid his hands down Geralt’s arms to capture his wrists, which Geralt obligingly allowed him to pin just above his head. Jaskier leaned forward, letting his cock, still mostly soft, slide against Geralt’s bare skin. “Are you going to tell me what you want for your prize?”_

_“You already know,” Geralt growled. He squirmed against the bed, no doubt looking for some friction._

_“I do,” Jaskier agreed. He rocked his hips against Geralt again, and Geralt went pliant beneath him. “Be patient. Some of us need more recovery time than you.”_

_“Hmm,” Geralt said agreeably. He lay placidly under Jaskier’s hands as Jaskier thrust against him. With the feel of Geralt’s hard body beneath him and the pleased, encouraging sounds Geralt made, it didn’t take long at all for Jaskier to make himself ready._

_Jaskier let go of Geralt and leaned over to grab the stoppered bottle of oil, now only half full, from the table next to the book. Such careless handling of a valuable tome-- the librarian would have his head if she knew. Jaskier dissolved into helpless giggles until Geralt turned onto his side so he could grab Jaskier by the back of the neck, drag him down onto the bed alongside him, and distract him with an extremely thorough kiss paired with a hearty groping of his ass._

_“Are you making me wait on purpose?” Geralt asked, leaning their foreheads together._

_“No. I don’t want to make you wait.” Jaskier took advantage of the position to curl his hand around Geralt’s cock and smear his thumb across the head, making Geralt push his hips forward eagerly. “I want to give you everything.”_

_“Then do it.”_

_Geralt rolled onto his belly again, and Jaskier dutifully straddled his thighs. He eased two slick fingers inside, causing Geralt to growl and push back to take more._

_“You’ve already spent half the night inside me. Get on with it.”_

_“As you command,” Jaskier laughed. He leaned over Geralt and sank into him slowly, closing his eyes to savor every moment of the sensation of entering him. Geralt sighed, as if with relief, when Jaskier was fully inside him._

_Jaskier took his time, in no rush for this to end. Geralt pushed back against every gentle rock of his hips and seemed almost to be in a trance as they settled into a rhythm. Jaskier could do this forever, wanted to do this forever, just the two of them moving and breathing in harmony, and the perfect composition of Geralt’s body aligned with his. He came with Geralt’s name on his lips, his hands clutching Geralt’s shoulders as if he were a life raft._

_He rested his head in the crook of Geralt’s neck until he regained his breath, then drew back and patted Geralt on the shoulder. “Over.”_

_Geralt turned onto his back, and Jaskier settled easily between his legs to take Geralt’s cock in his mouth. Geralt propped himself up on his elbows to watch, so Jaskier made a show of it, letting Geralt’s thick cockhead bulge his cheeks, then drawing back to swirl his tongue around the crown, all while keeping his eyes on Geralt._

_In return, Geralt watched him with his lips slightly parted, lost in pleasure and entirely unguarded. Jaskier would give him everything he wanted, whenever he wanted it, just to see that look of bliss on Geralt’s face. He sucked all of Geralt’s cock into his mouth. One of Geralt’s hands clamped onto Jaskier’s shoulder, giving a gentle push in warning. Jaskier stayed where he was, watching with great satisfaction as Geralt tipped over the crest of his pleasure and spilled into Jaskier’s mouth._

_Geralt lay panting, head thrown back, eyes glazed as he stared up at the ceiling. Jaskier allowed himself a smug smile and spent a few minutes admiring his handiwork: Geralt’s sweat-beaded chest, his softening cock, the laxness of his muscles as he melted into the bed. Then he elbowed him in the side._

_“Make room. You don’t get the whole bed.”_

_“I thought you wanted to give me everything,” Geralt rumbled. He did shift to the side so Jaskier could lie down, but then he took possession of Jaskier’s side of the bed through the sneaky tactic of wrapping Jaskier in his arms and pulling him snug to his chest._

_Jaskier didn’t object. The nights were getting colder, and his joints ached more than they used to. “You’re still leaving tomorrow,” he muttered as he fought back sleep._

_“Have to,” Geralt said._

_Jaskier had long since learned not to argue with that. “Where to this time?”_

_“Drakenberg.”_

_“I can’t leave here until the end of the term, but I’ll see you in Vengerberg after.” He’d almost drifted off before he realized he hadn’t gotten an answer, and his eyes flew open. “Geralt, won’t I?”_

_“Hm. Yes.” Geralt nodded his head against Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ll be there. Before the first snow.”_

_“See that you are.” Jaskier turned his head to press a kiss to Geralt’s temple, then reached over to turn down the lamp, leaving them in darkness._

Taking care of a man who wanted nothing to do with him proved quite the challenge. Jaskier spent several days annoying the cook with an exhaustive list of favorite dishes enjoyed by Geralt of Rivia. 

“Oh, and logdriver soup,” Jaskier said, scribbling on a piece of parchment. “This thing they made at the Pensive Dragon in--”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Master Julian,” the cook said in exasperation. “But logdriver soup is made with mollusks and shellfish. Do you see a coast anywhere hereabouts? Give me something I can work with!”

“Fair point. Well, there’s other things. Elvers!”

Jaskier had enlisted Essa’s help with gauging Geralt’s reactions to his efforts. She reported that Geralt was “suspicious but not so hungry all the time” after a few days of Jaskier’s kitchen-related efforts, and he counted that a success. 

Next, he troubled the housekeeper to find anything soft or with an interesting texture.

“Wasn’t there a rabbit fur pillow in the library? Oh, and that wall hanging with the knotted weaving. Where is that?”

“In Mistress Yennefer’s room,” the housekeeper reported dryly. 

“Well, she won’t mind a temporary relocation. And do I remember a blanket for the sledge with a lining of silver fox fur?”

Of that effort, Essa reported, “He sleeps a lot anyway, so how am I to know if he likes his bed more?” Jaskier marked that down as an inconclusive result. 

After that, he wrote to a friend at the Oxenfurt library asking for copies of two new publications he’d heard about that catalogued rare species of magical beasts. If they were accurate, Geralt would appreciate them for professional reasons. If they weren’t, he’d enjoy correcting all the mistakes. A package came back not long after with a heavily perfumed letter and the requested books. 

Jaskier presented the books proudly to Essa in the kitchen after dinner. “‘Strange Creatures of Skellige’s Shores’ and ‘The Natural Habits of Unnatural Beasts, Volume Six.’ He’ll love them.”

Essa took the books and looked up at him uncertainly. “But, sir… How’s he going to read them?”

“Oh.” All the hopeful joy of the moment poured out of Jaskier like ale from a leaky cask, leaving him weak in the knees. “Of course.” So stupid, to have forgotten. In his mind, Geralt’s eyes were a bright amber, and they looked at him with warmth. But that was not the Geralt who was here, not the one whom he was meant to be looking after. “Sorry, Es.” He held out his hand to take the books back, but she clutched them to her chest.

“I can read, you know.”

“I’ll bet you can.” At least the books would do someone some good. “Keep them if you like.”

“No, I mean read them to him. I could tell him I found them in the library, and I wanted to ask him questions because he knows all about fighting monsters. He has wonderful stories.”

Jaskier blinked at her. “Does he?”

“Oh, yes. This very morning he told me about killing a giant worm in the broccoli forest.”

“Oh.” Jealousy rose in Jaskier’s throat and nearly choked him, but he swallowed it down. Essa hadn’t done anything to provoke the witcher’s wrath. She deserved stories.

“Master Julian.” Essa was staring down at her feet. “It wouldn’t be dishonest, like, to tell him that? Isn’t it what mother calls a white lie?”

“By my measure, yes. I think it’s alright.”

“Good. I'll go see him now. He stays awake ages and ages after my bedtime. I can tell you tomorrow what he says.”

“Nah. You don’t need to.” It felt wrong to ask this girl to spy for him, when she’d grown so much closer to Geralt than Jaskier could hope to be right now. “Just enjoy the books as you like.”

“Thanks, Master Julian!” She scampered off with the books tucked under her arm, and Jaskier stood looking after her for a long minute. 

Then he walked back along the empty halls to his empty room, threw himself down on his empty bed, and lay staring up into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, y'all! You're welcome to come hang out with me [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill), where I reblog cute shit and whine about writing. Now that I'm quarantined (don't worry, I'm fine!), I will have a bit more time to write, so look for more chapter updates soon. I appreciate y'all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that last chapter was kind of a bummer, so here's another one to tide you over. Thank you as always for taking the time to comment-- it's so lovely to hear your reactions, the bits that resonated with you, and so on. This has been lots of fun to write. Thank you to hobbit and to jaunechat for their continuing help.

Geralt prodded at the misshapen dummy that was serving as a target with the pommel of his steel sword, and decided it would last at least one more round. He turned and stalked back to the center of the dusty practice ring.

Geralt had not had much chance to keep up his conditioning in captivity. Any fights had been short, not particularly focused on technique, and generally undertaken while out of his mind on the various decoctions and elixirs they used to keep him disoriented. So he hadn't realized before quite how muddled his senses were, beyond the obvious. He found balance a trial, wavering when he turned quickly this way or that, or mistaking his footing after a jump. His sense of location had also suffered. The target always seemed to be a hand’s breadth away from where he expected it.

He raised his sword and attacked again, this time trying to adjust his aim a bit to the left of his perception. He could feel his frustration rising as his strokes failed to land where he wanted them. His disorientation didn’t behave in predictable ways he could plan for. Perhaps he could learn, with practice, how to adjust his movements. But fighting monsters had required all his skill before, and now his abilities had been significantly diminished.

How could he hope to be of use as a witcher as he was now? He needed to be able to fend for himself if he ever wanted to leave here, and right now he wasn’t certain he could even do that. The sorceress had made confident noises about breaking the curse, but Geralt was not equally optimistic. Until some miraculous solution presented itself, he would operate as if his condition were permanent. 

After several days of being left mostly to his own devices, he’d warily begun to test what freedoms he would be allowed. Eating, bathing, and sleeping only took up so much time, though all the leisure, surprisingly good food, and luxurious bedding seemed to have had a positive effect on his health. Grooming and riding Roach on the grounds of the estate had been allowed, though a guard or two always followed him on those excursions. Yesterday he’d tried poking around the outbuildings and found an indoor salle with a practice circle outside. This morning when he’d returned, some equipment had appeared: the target dummy, a few dull but nicely weighted practice swords, and a trunk full of other miscellaneous weapons. He didn’t care where they came from, as long as he would be allowed to use them in peace. He hadn’t anticipated that trying out his sword work against a dummy would be such a gruelling or a maddening task. 

Geralt settled himself in a fighting stance again, slowing his breathing to center himself. He marked where he thought the target dummy was and leapt into action, aiming a backhanded swing as he turned. It went completely wide, pulling him around further than he’d anticipated, and he had to step back to catch himself.

“Geralt,” came a voice from the edge of the practice ring.

He swung again, followed through, pirouetted, and switched to a two-handed grip to sweep his sword down from above. The blade clipped the edge of the dummy, knocking Geralt off balance, and he barely managed to execute a turn that didn’t end in a stumble.

“Geralt?”

He struck again from that position, managing to connect this time, even if the stroke landed half a foot shorter than he’d meant it to. When he raised his arm in an automatic parry, his balance wavered, his foot came down wrong, and he stumbled three steps to the side. 

“Geralt!”

He whirled, baring his teeth, breathed in to scent and got a lungful of dust that sent dots blinking through his vision. Then he registered the voice as Jaskier’s. “What?” he snapped.

“Sorry to…” Jaskier was closer now, close enough to stab, if Geralt had been able to hit even so obvious a target as a defenseless human. “Your hands.”

Geralt looked down at his hands, though of course he couldn’t see them. Once it had been brought to his attention, he could feel them, throbbing and protesting. He slid his sword into its sheath on his back, with a promise to himself to clean the grip later. Gritting his teeth, he touched the tips of his fingers to his right hand to feel where the skin had ripped, and gave a dissatisfied grunt. The left hadn’t fared much better. He felt the wet tang of blood on his skin that sounded like a distant, ominous rumble.

Jaskier stepped closer and sucked air in through his teeth. “That looks unpleasant. If you want to come up to Yennefer’s workshop, she has some salves and bandages.”

“It’ll heal soon.” Geralt started to walk away, and Jaskier followed a few steps behind.

“Won’t it hurt in the meantime? And you’ll get blood on your clothes. It won’t take but a minute to bandage it.”

Geralt stopped, hanging his head. He felt certain the man would leave him alone if he demanded it, but it would also be nice not to have to worry about improvising a temporary bandage of his own. “Fine.”

To Geralt’s great relief, Jaskier didn’t natter on as he led the way up to the workshop. Though Geralt had memorized the way, he was content to follow Jaskier up the winding stairs and twisting hallways as the sensation of pain in his hands sent dizzying swarms of shifting color spinning in his vision. The workshop smelled of burdock--a purple color and a slightly bitter taste-- and smoke--a ghosting touch across his skin and a sound like crackling leaves, and it was empty. The sorceress must have been off doing whatever she did when she wasn’t questioning Geralt about all his deficiencies.

Jaskier led the way in and paused to tap his hand on something. “If you sit there, I’ll bring some supplies.”

Geralt folded himself onto the low stool that Jaskier had indicated and listened to Jaskier bustling around the room while his hands throbbed. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had sword calluses. Perhaps as a young child, before the trials. But even then, he’d had a wooden sword and daily practice. And of course the loss of his sword calluses was only a small example of his diminished fighting ability. He didn’t want to think what Vesemir would say about the state of him now. 

“Where’s Yennefer?” he asked at last, to get his mind off of that grim thought. 

“She went to see Istredd. Just to borrow some books of his,” Jaskier said quickly. “Which... you’re probably not worried about, because you don’t know who Istredd is.”

“I know who Istredd is.”

“What, really?” Something metal clanged against stone on the other side of the workshop. “You do?”

“Pretentious. Verbose. Practically owns the city of Aedd Gynvael.” Geralt mostly remembered his visit there as a fight with a zeugl and vague irritation at the local government, but he could clearly picture the sorcerer who resided there. 

“Yes, that is him. That hardly seems fair,” Jaskier muttered. “Well, Yennefer will be back tomorrow, I hope.” He returned with his arms full of supplies, and settled on the floor to Geralt’s right. “May I?”

Geralt extended his hand, palm up. Jaskier supported it gently with both his hands, turned it slightly this way and that, and made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. One hand went away and returned with a warm, wet cloth with which he dabbed at the drying blood. 

Jaskier’s warm skin felt impossibly soft, and sounded like a melodic hum that rose and fell with his movements. Beads of water dripped from the cloth onto Geralt’s wrist. As they slid over his skin, they brought the smell of salt spray on the morning breeze. Jaskier hadn’t touched him since they’d arrived at the estate, Geralt realized. But now, working diligently over Geralt’s hand, scrubbing away the dried blood and skirting the edges of the abraded skin, his touch felt surprisingly pleasant. 

In truth, Geralt was losing his conviction that Jaskier meant to do him harm beyond what he’d already done. He’d told the man to fuck off, and off he had fucked. He avoided Geralt, backtracking to get out of his way whenever their paths crossed. He’d stopped grooming Roach, leaving her for Geralt to tend to, to his immense satisfaction. He changed what had seemed to be a long-standing habit of using the bathing facilities in the evening, leaving them solely to Geralt. And now he was making the small, wordless noises of a man who very much wanted to comment on his work, but didn’t dare. 

“Why are you so quiet?” Geralt snapped. 

“You like the silence.” Jaskier squeezed out the cloth into a basin, and the sound of water hitting the metal tasted sharp and acidic. 

“You’re barely holding it in. You’re practically vibrating with it.”

“Does that mean you want me to talk?” Jaskier asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“Go ahead,” Geralt sighed.

Jaskier remained silent for another moment, then said, “I was just thinking of the first time I saw you come back from a hunt where you’d used one of your elixirs. It hadn’t worn off, and you didn’t even feel the slice across your ribs. You didn’t notice it until you saw your armor was damaged. Big, deep cut, nasty torn edges. I couldn’t believe you weren’t screaming your head off. The gods know I would have been.”

“You’re not a witcher.”

“You’re right. If it were me, I would have been dead.” Jaskier set aside the cloth and unstoppered a jar that smelled of camomile, which appeared as a brown-greenish wisp of color. He rubbed the thin salve into Geralt’s hand, avoiding the bloodied skin as he loosened up the muscles with unerring skill. The melodic tone that came with his touch spiraled and wavered as he worked. 

“So you’ve patched me up before,” Geralt ventured.

“I’m no healer, but I’ll do in a pinch. On that occasion, we were probably, mm, a hundred miles from the nearest town and hadn’t seen another person in days,” Jaskier said. “So I was the only option.”

“Why?”

“Because Roach doesn’t have thumbs?” 

“No,” Geralt said with a frown. “Why were you with me a hundred miles from the nearest town?” 

“I… You had a contract. I came along.” Jaskier wrung out the cloth into the basin again. “It’s… just how things were.”

“Aren’t you a bard?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t any audiences in-- oh.” Geralt’s lip curled and he leaned back, away from Jaskier as he realized what the appeal must have been. “I see. Material. Exciting songs about slaying monsters.”

“That’s not…” Jaskier sighed. “Never mind.” He opened a different bottle, this one smelling more of alcohol and leaving a bitter taste on Geralt’s tongue. “This might sting.” 

He dabbed the salve on with the corner of another cloth. The pain flared a bit, though it was still little more than an annoyance. After a moment, even that pain faded into numbness. 

“Let that dry a moment, then I’ll bandage it,” Jaskier said. “You sat so quietly while I sewed the wound closed, which I was terrible at back then. Uneven, messy, stray needle pricks galore. And you just sat there and explained every step, utterly calm and unbothered by it all.”

Geralt had felt that scar along his left side. He remembered the monster that had caused it, but could recall nothing about the healing. That wasn’t unusual. Some elixirs made him so tired he could sleep through almost anything. But the scar was unevenly seamed. It had been badly stitched. Geralt had got very good at stitching his own wounds even before he left Kaer Morhen; it hadn’t been his own work. 

“That should do it.” Jaskier began wrapping a soft cloth around Geralt’s palm, leaving his fingers relatively unencumbered. Just as Geralt would have wrapped it himself, if he had two hands to work with. 

Geralt regarded Jaskier as he worked. He wished fiercely that he could hear and smell as he ought. How did humans ever figure out what anyone really meant when they spoke? Finally, he asked, “What do you want? Why did you bring me here?”

Jaskier’s hands froze holding the bandage, then stuttered into motion again. “I want you to be safe and hale somewhere Iwen won’t come for you again, doing something that pleases you.”

“Something that pleases me,” Geralt said slowly.

“Hard to imagine, I know. Other hand.” Jaskier adjusted his position to Geralt’s other side and waited for him to offer his palm. When he did, Jaskier started the process over, washing the blood off Geralt’s skin. The sensations Jaskier’s touch caused were difficult to ignore: the firm press of his thumbs into the cramped muscles of Geralt’s hand and the curling melody of his fingers as he dabbed on salve. Geralt closed his eyes to better hear Jaskier’s touch.

_Geralt felt every muscle tense as he sank down on Prince Kacper’s cock. He shouldn’t have been enjoying this, but Kacper’s command to pleasure himself had been as impossible to disobey as all his other orders. His heart thudded too quickly in his chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps, as if he had no control over it at all._

_There had been a time when Geralt had enjoyed sex. It hadn’t been like this at all. He could picture it, if he closed his eyes, someone stroking his back and muttering filthy words of encouragement as they moved inside him. Someone who knew his body well and wanted to give him pleasure. _”Do you like this? Sh, I know you do. I want you to relax. I’ll take care of you.”_ It was a familiar voice, one he’d not heard in a long while, though he couldn’t picture the face that went with it._

_Mostly here, the guards touched him to hurt him or restrain him, and the guests touched him in ways that were only incidental to their pleasure. Every kind or comfortable touch was a memory to be hoarded. He hadn’t felt the pleasurable heat of arousal in so long he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like._

_“That’s right. Let me hear you,” Prince Kacper said. “Does that feel good?”_

_“Yes,” Geralt gritted out. The pleasure rolled through him in ripples that doubled back upon themselves and amplified each other, more disorienting than he remembered. He panted helplessly as he worked himself on Prince Kacper’s cock. The man seemed not to be exerting any effort to control Geralt. He wondered, suddenly, if the prince was actually controlling him with magic, or just using Geralt’s base desires against him. Geralt had shivered with pleasure at Kacper’s touch, even as he despised it. He’d gotten hard with no difficulty whatsoever at a brush of his own fingers and a half-formed order from Kacper. And here he was, pleasuring himself on Kacper’s cock for the entertainment of his master at the slightest invitation. Had he become such a pathetic, desperate creature that mere scraps of physical pleasure were enough to undo him and make him crawl? Geralt was too much of a coward to find out by throwing himself against the power of the compulsion yet again._

_Kacper curled his hand around Geralt’s cock and stroked him expertly. It felt familiar, though the image of that memory was out of reach. _“You are so beautiful when you lose control like this. I’ll never get tired of watching you come.”_ He wasn’t certain if this was the same voice as before, or another one. It had been far too long since Geralt had felt pleasure of any kind, and this much all at once overwhelmed him, wrapping him so thickly in sensation he could barely hear what Kacper said next, or his own reply. _

_It wasn’t meant to be this way. This was something he could choose, something he’d chosen before, but not here. Not with this stranger who was his enemy. Not with his hated master. They’d had to buy every moment of his compliance with blood and coercion and pain. This was not theirs to take, to pollute. He would not give them this. He would not_ enjoy _this._

_He would finish it, because he had to, but it wouldn’t make him forget real pleasure, wouldn’t make him forget how to share satisfaction with someone he’s chosen. Kacper spoke again, breaking Geralt’s concentration, and he gritted his teeth before throwing himself back into the fight._

Geralt leaned forward, breathing in the heady taste of Jaskier’s scent. With it came the scent and feel he recognized as the stirrings of his own arousal. His body was relaxed, heavy and contented. Jaskier’s fingers were warm on his skin as he finished wrapping the bandage. 

“There. I know they’re bothersome, but at least they’ll keep the wounds clean. I’ll give you some extra, in case one of these comes loose.”

“Thank you,” Geralt muttered. He blinked as Jaskier’s touch disappeared and the bard stood. The melodic humming that had fairly hypnotized him vanished abruptly. He flushed as he realized how carried away he’d been, to be responding so strongly to a simple touch by a man he detested. He shook himself brisky and leaned forward to hide any outwards sign of arousal from Jaskier.

“Right, here’s some extra.” Jaskier held out his hand, and Geralt took the roll of bandages. “Is there anything else you need? Some food, perhaps, or--”

“No. You can go,” Geralt said quickly.

Jaskier shifted his weight from foot to foot, hesitating. “I don’t have to leave, if you--”

“I don’t want you here,” Geralt snapped.

“Right. I’ll go.” Jaskier quickly retreated to the door. He paused, turned back, and said, “See you around, Geralt,” before hurrying away.

Geralt clenched his hands into fists and welcomed the sting of pain that wiped away his traitorous pleasure.  
\--

Jaskier spent the rest of the afternoon in his room so that Geralt wouldn’t need to see him. Though his music still wasn’t cooperating, he was able to lose himself in writing a response to a colleague who’d sent him some poetry to critique. Composing a scathing commentary on the man’s subpar rhyme schemes did cheer him up a bit. After supper, he decided it would be safe enough to return to Yennefer’s workshop and clean up the supplies he’d left out upon his hasty retreat. 

The warm glow of firelight poured into the hall from the open door, and Jaskier hesitated, wondering if Geralt had stayed for some reason.

“It’s just me,” Yennefer called. 

Jaskier shook off his paralysis and ducked inside. Yennefer stood at her work table, which was littered with open books and scraps of parchment. She looked as perfectly made up as ever, but Jaskier thought he recognized lines of worry around her eyes. When she said nothing, Jaskier went to pick up the basin of bloodied water that he’d left out. 

“Bring that here. His blood’s in it, yes? Might come in handy.”

Jaskier curled his arms around the basin. “Are you working some horrible dark magic that’s going to turn him into a ghoul?”

“No,” she said absently. “What would I want with a ghoul? Blood can be useful for lifting curses.“

“You were gone quite a while. I was starting to get worried.”

“Yes. Istredd’s library was better than I thought.”

“How was he?” Jaskier asked politely. He set the basin of reddish water on the work table and frowned at all the elaborate diagrams on display.

“Surprisingly sympathetic. He and Geralt understand each other better than you might think.”

“Did they know each other well?”

“Not particularly.”

“The universe is so unfair. Roach is one thing, but…” Jaskier shook his head. “So your trip was fruitful?” 

“Perhaps. I may have an idea I want to try.”

“That’s good.”

Yennefer made a noncommittal noise.

“Isn’t that good?” Jaskier asked.

“How is he?” she asked, ignoring him.

“No better.” He thought about reporting on Geralt’s forays into sword practice, but decided there wasn’t enough benefit to justify breaching what little privacy Geralt had. After all, Geralt hadn’t invited Jaskier to observe. Jaskier just happened to pass by the training ring on his way to the stable a few times a day, by coincidence. “No real changes.”

“Mm.” 

“Still hates me.” This, Jaskier felt, was relevant to their cause, in the sense of Geralt’s memory showing no signs of returning. 

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not.” 

Yennefer sighed. “Jaskier, strong surface emotions like that are usually very clear. He never hated you before, even when you thought he did.”

“This is different,” Jaskier said softly. Though he and Geralt had fought, disagreed, and fumed at each other plenty over the years, Jaskier had never felt as deserving of Geralt’s contempt as he did now.

_“Geralt, I have a question,” Jaskier ventured._

_Geralt was half-asleep already, full of roast venison and half a cask of ale they’d liberated from the scoundrel of an innkeeper who’d underpaid for Geralt’s services. He was settled back against a log with his feet near the fire, eyes closed and head tipped up to catch the warm summer breeze. Jaskier was hardly likely to find him in a better mood._

_“Hmm?” Geralt replied._

_“I'm not asking for another gut punch, I promise.” Jaskier plucked another few notes on his lute for courage. “I just want to know why… Why people... What was different about Blaviken?”_

_Geralt cracked one eye open and used it to glare forcefully at Jaskier. “There's a reason they called me the Butcher. Surely you’ve heard the stories.”_

_“I'd say I know you quite well at this point, and I find it hard to believe that you, unprovoked, took it into your head to slaughter villagers in the marketplace.” Jaskier himself was a past master of spinning the facts into digestible propaganda, and he knew a half-truth when he heard one._

_“You don't know me that well.” Geralt settled back against the log and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe I did.”_

_“You can't scare me off with that. I do know you, and that is not what happened.”_

_“It doesn't matter what happened. Why can't you let this go?”_

_“Geralt, it's a question of principle.” Jaskier set aside his lute and sat up to give Geralt the most pleading expression his blue eyes could muster. “I promise not to sing about it, or even mention it to another soul, but it seems to me that you believe what you did was unforgivable. I would say there's very little a man can do in this world that is unforgivable, and I do not believe this was one of those cases.”_

_“I’m not a man,” said Geralt._

_Jaskier ignored that old argument and rolled right on. “Say that half a dozen men attacked you in the marketplace, and you had to defend yourself. Should you have let them just kill you instead?”_

_“Maybe,” Geralt said placidly. Ignoring Jaskier’s incredulous looks and sputtering, he continued to gaze into the fire._

_“May I posit -”_

_“You may not.”_

_“I posit,” Jaskier continued, “that if I had been attacked in the marketplace by six men, you would not have begrudged me killing them in self defense.”_

_“You are not capable of killing six men in self defense,” Geralt pointed out, somewhat more amused than Jaskier’s pride would have preferred._

_“Let's say that I was. Half a dozen men attack me, and they won't leave me alone. There's no chance for me to flee. My only choices are to kill them or be killed. What should I do?”_

_“It's not the same.”_

_“Well, since you won't tell me the actual scenario, I'm doing the best I can, here.” Jaskier spread his hands, offering what he considered a reasonable compromise. “How about this. I would like you to imagine me in whatever circumstances there were that resulted in the infamous ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ moniker. And just imagine that I am as much of a danger with a blade as you.”_

_“It stretches credulity,” Geralt said._

_“Yes, haha,” said Jaskier. “So you're imagining me instead of you in this circumstance. Say that I made all the same decisions. Now would you say that I had done something unforgivable?_

_“You wouldn't have done what I did,” Geralt said._

_“You don't know me that well either,” Jaskier shot back. “Maybe I would have. And if I had, would it have been so bad, such an irredeemably evil act that I could never earn forgiveness?”_

_“Of course not.”_

_“Aha!” Jaskier jabbed a finger towards Geralt, who brushed it aside impatiently._

_“But that's different, because it's you.”_

_“Both of us, making the exact same choices in the exact same situation, and in one case it's forgivable and the other not?”_

_“This is all nonsense,” Geralt said. “Theoretical speculation. I won’t be forgiven, so it doesn’t matter.”_

_“I forgive you,” Jaskier said._

_Geralt looked at him at last, eyes wide and startled, but almost immediately shook his head and turned back to his fire staring. “That is not how it works.”_

_“I'm only saying, you should think about it.” Jaskier picked up his lute and resigned himself to not receiving a straight answer. “I would feel a lot better if I knew that you weren't going to write me off as an irredeemable monster the next time I make a mistake.”_

_He plucked a few notes on his lute, but hadn’t settled on anything to play before Geralt said, “That wouldn’t happen. You'd never do something I couldn't forgive you for.”_

“Yen,” Jaskier said. 

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t…. I’m not….”

“What, Jaskier?” She turned away from her books and leaned back against her work table, waiting.

“It’s just this. His only memory of me, the only thing he knows about me, is that I tortured him. What I did, even weighed against everything else we've ever done together, might not be forgivable. But without any of our past in the balance, it's definitely unforgivable. If he doesn't get his memory back, I will never be anything more to him than a monster. "

“It’s not in him to hate you forever.”

“Do you want to wager on that? You have clearly never been thrown into a mountain stream in retaliation for a song performed once to a very select audience more than a decade ago. Spite, thy messenger is Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well, you earned that one,” Yennefer said thoughtfully. Before Jaskier could object, she held up a hand. "And you're right. If he doesn't get his memory back, you'll never be what you were to each other. Neither will he and I. What they've taken from him is not only his memories but us, as well, everything we’ve built together. Everything we’ve…” She stumbled to a stop and pressed her lips together. Jaskier understood the sentiment.

“I know,” he said quietly. 

“But I would rather he be here and have to suffer missing him when he's right in front of me than knowing he was in pain somewhere I couldn’t reach him,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?"

“You're right. Of course you're right." Jaskier dropped his elbows onto the work table and hung his head. “You do have a way of making me feel quite silly for my self-pity. "

“All self-pity is silly,” said Yennefer. “It’s also too soon to decide that he'll never remember what he’s lost. But if he won’t trust either of us, he needs someone he does trust. Someone... Hm. I have an idea.” She plucked a blank piece of parchment from under one of the books, and turned to him. “How’s your handwriting?”

Jaskier gave her an affronted look, and was about to deliver a scathing lecture on his academic pedigree when she shook her head and said, “Yes, yes, fine. You can help me compose a letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he talks about Istredd, Geralt is referencing the events of the short story, "A Shard of Ice," which is definitely worth checking out if you enjoy Geralt whump. Come find me on [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill)! And thanks again for all your support of this WIP!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you familiar only with Netflix canon, there may be some new faces here. See the chapter end notes for a very brief rundown of who they are if you like, but I'd like to think it's pretty clear from context, no background reading needed!
> 
> As always, thanks to Hobbit and jaunechat for beta assistance!

Geralt was back in the practice ring in the relative warmth of the late afternoon, running through exercises with his sword and, though the bandages had come off days ago, being diligently gentle with his hands. The days had been getting longer, the wind not so cold. His muscles didn’t ache so much after a few hours of sword work. Still, Geralt grimaced when he raised his steel sword overhead and felt his arms shake; his stamina was still pathetic. His concentration was broken when he heard the clatter of hooves, accompanied by pulsing dots in his sight, from the courtyard, announcing a visitor. He’d been about to take a rest anyway-- he didn’t want to provoke another concerned visit from Jaskier-- so he decided he may as well take the opportunity to do a bit of snooping. 

He sheathed the sword on his back and walked around the salle to better overhear whatever happened in the courtyard, though he realized too late that made him visible to passers-by. He heard the quick, light footsteps of the housekeeper’s daughter pelting towards him over the cobblestones. 

“Geralt!” Essa called. “There you are. You have a visitor! Go on, sir. I’ll tell Lady Yennefer you’re here.” Her steps retreated back towards the house.

Geralt frowned, wondering who could possibly be visiting him. Then he breathed in to scent the air, and he knew: the astringent smell of elixirs that left a taste of alcohol in his mouth, the fall of the footsteps paced just so, and the subtle scent of the mountain winter on the man’s clothes, blowing across Geralt’s vision like wind-driven snow.

“Eskel,” he breathed, hardly daring.

“Wolf,” came the amused reply.

“Eskel!” Geralt charged forward and flung his arms around his witcher brother, clinging to him as if he might collapse without his support, which suddenly was not an impossibility. Eskel wrapped his arms around Geralt in return, holding him so tightly he at last had to let go to breathe. Geralt raised a hand to Eskel’s face and traced the seams of the scars that ran down his cheek, as familiar as his own old wounds. It was him, truly.

“So glad to see you’re alive,” Eskel said, keeping a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Mostly,” Geralt muttered, and turned his face away. He wasn’t certain how he looked, but he knew it was nothing like a proper witcher in full fighting trim.

“Complainer.” Eskel shoved him in the shoulder, but almost immediately gripped Geralt’s arm again to steady him. “Are you all right, truly? You’re not hurt?” 

“I can’t fucking see, but I don’t have any broken bones, if that’s what you mean.”

“So the letter said.”

“What letter?” Geralt asked. 

“Jaskier and Yennefer wrote to me with an update. Invited me to come check on your progress. I imagine you’re a terribly unpleasant invalid.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Geralt growled.

“Well, you are meant to be recovering from three years of captivity, not to mention a seriously debilitating curse.” Eskel settled a hand on Geralt’s cheek, brushing his thumb below one of Geralt’s sightless eyes. “That would make anyone grumpy, and you start at a higher level of surliness than most.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” Geralt mumbled, but he didn’t bat Eskel’s hand away. His touch sounded like wind whistling in the battlements of Kaer Morhen. Geralt leaned into the pressure of that touch.

“Perhaps not. But that doesn’t mean you won’t let me take care of you just a little, does it?” Eskel held onto Geralt for another moment, then dropped his hand and stepped away. “Let me get my horse settled. We’ll go somewhere warmer to talk.”

Geralt followed Eskel as he led his horse to the stable, still a bit dazed at having Eskel here with him. Before they reached the threshold, Jaskier came out to greet them. Geralt tensed at the smell of him, and hurried his steps to stand a just ahead of Eskel, blocking Jaskier’s path.

“Eskel.” Jaskier stopped a few feet away and leaned against the stable door, which creaked quietly. “The welcoming committee told me you’d arrived.” 

“Jaskier!” Eskel brushed past Geralt’s shoulder and embraced Jaskier, patting him on the back. “It’s good to see you. Have you been promoted to stable boy now?”

“Well, some brave soul has to take care of these fearsome witcher-trained steeds.” The false gaity in his voice was obvious even to Geralt’s diminished hearing.

“Heard we have you to thank for bringing Geralt back to us,” Eskel said.

“To be fair, Roach brought him most of the way.”

“I imagine Geralt hasn’t done it, so I’ll say thank you on his behalf. And the rest of us. We’ve missed him.” Eskel grabbed Geralt’s arm and tugged him in close to his side. “And we’ve missed you, for that matter, Jaskier. Another long winter without any of you, and no songs at all. Let’s have some wine. You can sing us everything we haven’t heard in the past few years.”

“No,” Jaskier said quickly. “No, I can’t. I should leave the two of you to catch up. Here, I’ll take Scorpion. Don’t worry, I can get him settled and fed. Good night, Eskel. Geralt.” The clip-clop of hooves heading into the stable accompanied Jaskier’s hasty retreat.

“Wine?” Geralt asked, steering Eskel back through the courtyard towards the house. 

“Geralt, what’s wrong with your bard?” Eskel asked quietly.

“He’s not my bard.”

“Yes he is. What happened? Never in all the time we’ve been acquainted have I heard him refuse a request to perform.” Eskel snorted. “Hell, he never fails to grasp at even the barest hint.”

“I’ve never heard him sing. Or play, for that matter.” In truth, Geralt had a difficult time imagining Jaskier performing. He seemed almost timid whenever Geralt was around.

"I… Never mind.” Eskel bumped shoulders with Geralt as they walked. “I’m glad to see you. Truly, the sorceress made it sound much worse than you look.”

“Worse?” Geralt huffed. “I’m blind. I can’t fight, can’t even defend myself.”

“You’d prefer to still be a prisoner? I brought some manuscripts Yennefer asked for from our archives. She seems confident she can reverse what was done. Her confidence is usually well-founded.”

“We’ll see.” Geralt had felt some of that same hope at the beginning, as well, but had since exhausted his supply.

“Come here, Wolf.” Eskel grabbed onto him and held him fast. “Thank you for being alive.” Geralt could hear Eskel’s heart thumping, faster than it should, though it slowed as he breathed against Geralt’s neck. At last, he let go and patted Geralt’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s find some wine. I need to get used to the idea that you’re real.” 

_“No, how is our training in Brokilon any more cruel than what you witchers put your children through?” Petra asked. She was sitting against the wall of their cell, a few feet away._

_“Young witchers aren’t forced to forget their pasts when they begin training,” Geralt said, though in truth he wasn’t putting too much effort into defending his point. He was so damnably glad to have someone to speak to at all after so many weeks of isolation that he would have happily made conversation with a nightwraith. The dryad Petra would have been uncommonly good company around any campfire, and she was a welcome addition to Geralt's cell._

_“Is that less cruel? So I forget, but what I forget is parents who did not want me. And I have a new family who wants me very much, who trained me, and protect me, and provide everything I need.”_

_“You remember nothing of your life before Brokilon?” Geralt asked_

_“What do you remember of your life before Kaer Morhen?” she shot back._

_“Very little.”_

_“As with me. Little dryads and little witchers are not so different.” Petra shifted closer to Geralt so that she could draw the threadbare blanket she held over both of them. “You are a dying breed I heard, witchers.”_

_“As are the dryads.”_

_“But we still have Brokilon. Whereas your castle, where they make witchers, has been destroyed, yes?” She took a quick, startled breath. “You are not the only one, are you? How horrible that would be.”_

_“No, not only. Though one of us will be someday, I imagine.” Geralt steered his thoughts away from his fellow witchers, who would be wintering at Kaer Morhen now. They wouldn’t be missing him, not yet. He’d planned to spend the winter elsewhere, though where and why he could not recall._

_“I’ve never been alone so much in my life, before I came here.” She leaned her head against Geralt’s shoulder. “Sometimes I think I would give anything just to feel one of them hold me, touch my hair.”_

_“I know what you mean,” Geralt said quietly._

_“Come here.” Petra curled up against Geralt as if he were another dryad. “It’s warmer like this, anyway.”_

_Geralt shifted so he could put his arms around her, sharing more of his heat. He did that often, if the person he was with was cold. Though none of his fellow witchers had any trouble with the cold, so he wasn’t sure who that might have been._

_“You’ll see them again,” Petra muttered against his skin._

_Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t answer._

Geralt lay stretched out on a fur rug in front of the hearth, with his bare feet warming next to the fire and his head in Eskel’s lap. Eskel’s fingers twined through Geralt’s hair, still wet from the bath. It had grown shaggy over the past few weeks, but not long enough yet to tie back, and the touch came with the sound of a seashore, waves rising and falling. Geralt admired Eskel’s concentration, as playing Geralt’s hair with one hand didn’t in any way deter him from tracing the Sign of Quen with the other and bringing up a humming field of power around them.

“Go on.” Eskel dropped the Quen with a flicking metallic sound, and prodded Geralt’s shoulder. “Try again.”

“I don’t need a demonstration, Eskel. I know what Quen is supposed to look like.” Geralt traced the sign with his right hand and tried to push power through it. He felt a distant pull, painful like a strained muscle. Nothing else happened. “See, impossible, like everything else.”

Eskel had seen a demonstration of Geralt’s other reduced abilities when he’d brought him to the salle to spar. It wasn’t quite as humiliating as it would have been to show Vesemir, but it still stung not to be able to score a single hit when he used to beat Eskel two times out of three at least, if signs were forbidden.

“Your form is fine,” Eskel said thoughtfully. “Must be something physical.”

“Like fatigue?” Geralt asked. “You’re saying I could work up to casing signs again?”

“Not sure. If you can’t hit a target with a sword, it’s no wonder you can’t use a sign.”

“Why should that matter? I may not be able to see, but I can form the sign, and I know how to give it power.”

“It’s physical, not just mental. Concentration is done with the body as well as the mind. This is basic sign theory! How did they ever let you out on the Path on your own?”

“I suppose I did turn out to be a bit of a disappointment.” Geralt tugged his head away from Eskel’s hands and sat up.

“Stop it.” Eskel grabbed Geralt under the arms and hauled him back so he could lean against Eskel’s chest, with Eskel’s arms wrapped around him. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. I’m so damn sorry.”

“You thought I was dead.”

Eskel exhaled slowly, his breath rustling Geralt’s hair. “That’s generally what has happened when a witcher leaves behind his swords, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Eskel said, though the joke came out a bit brittle.

“Even if you’d known where I was, you would only have put yourself in danger. They bested me, after all.” Witchers were powerful adversaries, Geralt knew, but they weren’t trained to storm fortresses. And his own experience had been enough to show that escaping from Lord Iwen’s custody would not have been an easy task.

“None of us is invincible. You know that. Could have been any one of us they captured.” 

Eskel’s words pierced unerringly to a sore spot Geralt hadn’t realized had been bothering him: a little kernel of fear when he thought of Eskel in that place. His mind raced in an instant through all he’d endured. If his going through that had spared Eskel or one of the others the same ordeal, then it hadn’t been pointless, not at all. Perhaps he could even be proud of surviving it. 

“I’m glad it was me, then.”

“Geralt--”

“If he was going to find one of us, regardless, I’m glad it was me and not you, or one of the others.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t know.” Geralt’s voice came out more harshly than he’d meant it to, and he made an effort to calm himself. “You weren’t there.”

“That’s true.” Eskel tightened his grip on Geralt and leaned into him. “I’m here now.”

They sat for a while basking in the heat of the fire, and Geralt thought Eskel might have drifted off, but at last he said, “So aside from your unfortunate and _temporary_ physical setbacks, what’s wrong?”

Geralt bit back his first answer, which was “everything,” and took a moment to examine what exactly the itch was under his skin. “What’s wrong,” he said at last, “is that other people seem to remember much more about my life than I do.”

“Hm. Know who could help with that?” Eskel asked, but barreled on without waiting for an answer. “Jaskier. He’s been by your side more than anyone else the past ten years.”

“Well, I’m asking you,” Geralt said tightly.

“Every time I’ve seen you in recent memory, you’ve been with him.”

“Why?”

“Because you care about him, and he cares about you.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Geralt struggled out of Eskel’s embrace and pushed to his feet. The scant remains of their late supper still lay on the table, and Geralt searched among them for a carafe of wine that wasn’t empty. 

“Aside from the fact that it’s obvious, I know what you’ve told me yourself.”

Geralt froze just as he’d lifted a half-full carafe. “Which is what?”

“That Yennefer and Jaskier are two sides of a coin, the most valuable you’d ever found. A treasure you would rather die than relinquish. It was fairly poetic, for you.” 

“I said that?” Geralt set the wine back down.

“Uh huh.” Eskel stood and came over to pour the wine. He handed a glass to Geralt, who somehow found himself sitting in a chair by the table.

“What happened to him?” Eskel asked quietly. “He looks awful. Worse than you, in fact.”

“I don’t see why. As far as I know he’s had nothing but princely treatment since I met him.” Except for the few occasions when Geralt had attacked him, which he decided not to mention. He sipped at the wine Eskel had set in front of him. “I have as little to do with him as possible.”

“Why does it bother you to think he might matter to you?”

“Because he had no problem fitting in with the people who held me captive and hurting me as badly as any of them ever did.”

“No problem?” Eskel’s glass clicked as he set it down. “I realize you have no basis for comparison here, but that man is a broken shell of himself. Whatever he did cost him more than you know. You don’t have to forgive him for what he did. You can tell him to go take a piss in the wind if you like. I imagine he’d oblige you. He seems to have learned well enough to leave you alone. But it seems a pity to throw away so loyal a friend.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Ohh.” Eskel hummed in thought. “I know why this sounds familiar.”

“What?” Geralt asked warily.

“I have a theory. You said those exact words to me in that exact same tone, years and years ago. They--Yennefer and Jaskier-- still know everything you taught them, but because you’ve forgotten them, you remember nothing they taught you. And believe me, it took several years of education for the three of you to work out your… situation. That’s why you’re so insufferable.”

“Thank you for that.”

“They’ve been good for you.” Eskel reached out slowly and put his hand over Geralt’s where it lay on the table. “You’ve been happy, Wolf. Happier than I had ever seen you.”

“Hmm.” Happy didn’t seem right. It wasn’t a condition to which Geralt had ever aspired. The bard’s words, _something that pleases you,_ welled up in Geralt’s mind, and he pushed them away. That sort of thing wasn’t meant for a witcher. Eskel knew him better than anyone, but even Eskel didn’t know everything. It was possible he was mistaken. “Did you just come here to lecture me?”

“No,” Eskel said. “I came for you.”

Geralt let himself breathe Eskel in: elixir and mountain wind, silver and steel, and the taste of blood and potions. “When do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow. I have a contract in Verden. Do you want me to stay?”

No. Geralt wanted to go with him. To be able to help, to watch Eskel’s back, to hold his own in a fight, to be capable of killing monsters. “I would hold you back. You have work to do.”

“That’s not a no,” Eskel pointed out, as inconveniently observant as ever.

“I’m going to have to learn to take care of myself. You can’t be my nursemaid.”

“Are you that unhappy here?” Eskel scooted his chair closer. “Is Yennefer being too impatient with you? She has the best chance of anyone on the Continent to put you right, but if you--”

“No. No, they’ve done nothing to me since I got here.” As far as he knew, the sorceress hadn’t cast a single spell on him. He had nothing to complain of.

“Then what? Why do you look like you’ve been given a death sentence?”

Geralt pushed to his feet and went to stand by the fireplace. The heat rolled over his skin and sent flickers of orange and red flickering in his sight. “She’s not going to be able to help me. No one can. Then what? I make myself useful to them in some other way?”

“You’re always welcome at Kaer Morhen. You know that.” Eskel’s chair scraped, and he stepped up beside Geralt, whose shoulders had just fallen with the release of tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “How do you not know that?”

“And they’d let me go?” Geralt asked quietly. 

“Let you go? Yennefer and Jaskier? Yes. They’d be upset. Yennefer would probably curse fairly energetically. Imagine it’d take some convincing If you didn’t want those two to come with you,” Eskel said. “But it’s your choice. We wouldn’t let anyone stay at Kaer Morhen if you didn’t want them there.”

Geralt released a long breath, then felt a smile emerge. “Then why is Lambert always there?” 

“Prick.” Eskel bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s, Geralt bumped him back, and they both chuckled. 

“Where will you be?” Geralt asked. “In case I need to come after you.”

“I’ll come back here to check on you. Then I’ll take you home if you want to go. Contract in Verden will take a month, maybe less. If I don’t run right into a job, I’ll stop back here first. You shouldn’t be out there on your own, not yet.”

“I am still a witcher,” Geralt said, bristling.

“I know,” Eskel said placidly. “But if you go rushing out after me before you’ve finished your convalescence, I’ll smack you on your stupid head and carry you back here tied up if I have to, see if I don’t.”

“Only way you could get the drop on me is if I was blind,” Geralt muttered.

“Then lucky for me you still are.”  
\--

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier froze coming out of the kitchen and fumbled the apple he’d just been tossing into the air. Eskel caught it easily. 

“Good morning.” Jaskier looked from the apple to Eskel’s scarred face, and wondered if he was about to get a beating or, worse, a lecture, in light of whatever he and Geralt had spoken about last night. Not that Jaskier didn’t deserve both. Though he’d never run afoul of Eskel’s protective instincts before, he had seen them in action, and he didn’t wish to cross them. “Everything all right?” Jaskier asked. “Where’s Geralt?”

“He’s still asleep. Good for nothing layabout.” Eskel tossed the apple up and caught it again, then handed it back to Jaskier.

“He sleeps a lot,” Jaskier said. Not that he kept track, but… Essa did. “They starved him, and he… I don’t think he finds staying here very restful.”

“No,” Eskel said simply. “Could you help me with something? I’m going to brew a few elixirs for Geralt, to help build his tolerance. He told me you’d gathered some ingredients for him. I figured that means you’re qualified to help.”

“Help?” Jaskier blinked at Eskel, feeling unaccountably slow. 

Eskel raised an eyebrow at him, which pulled at the scars crossing it. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“No, of course,” Jaskier said quickly. “Of course I’ll help.”

“Yennefer said we could use her workshop. Perhaps you could show me the way.”

“Right.” Jaskier set off through the halls, and Eskel fell into step beside him. Though Jaskier had known him for years, he’d never been as good at reading Eskel as he was at understanding Geralt’s unspoken moods. “So, did the two of you have a pleasant evening?” Jaskier flinched at how familiar that sounded. “No, it’s none of my business, sorry, forget I asked.”

“Yes, we did,” Eskel said, and nothing more. 

In the workshop, Eskel unloaded many little bottles and pouches from a satchel he carried, and lined them up on the work table. If he’d brought Jaskier up here to murder him, at least he did want to do some actual alchemy first. 

“Right,” Eskel said. “These plants are left over from early last season. They’ll have lost most of their potency, which is good for our purposes. Here, grind these together.” He poured from a few of his pouches into a mortar, which he handed to Jaskier along with a pestle. He went about mixing and measuring with admirable efficiency, handing tasks off to Jaskier whenever he finished his previous one.

As Jaskier stirred a bubbling concoction of he knew not what, he decided he should say his piece, even not knowing if Eskel was feeling predisposed to beat him into paste for what he’d done to Geralt. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me and Yen. I know you didn’t come for us, but still. Thank you. I realized last night…" Seeing the look on Geralt's face as he recognized Eskel had been painful as well as illuminating. "I haven’t seen him happy. He hasn’t been able to let his guard down around us. Me, mostly.”

“Trust doesn’t come naturally to witchers.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jaskier stirred the bubbling liquid a bit more forcefully than necessary, and a drop splashed out, hissing as it made contact with the work table. 

“Careful,” Eskel said mildly. “Don’t get any on your skin. It’ll eat right through.”

“Really?”

Eskel gave him a blank “what do you think?” look that Jaskier genuinely did not know whether to interpret as friendly teasing or as a threat. He stirred more carefully just the same. 

Eskel perched on a stool next to the work table and watched Jaskier stir for a while before saying, “I’ll tell you a story. Many years ago, forgot how long, exactly, a witcher from the School of the Bear ran afoul of a sorcerer while working on a contract in the south. This sorcerer wasn’t one of the Brotherhood, who respect the office of a witcher, if not always the man who holds it. This was a magician who followed no laws but his own. The witcher had insulted this sorcerer in some obscure way, and so the sorcerer imprisoned the witcher and hurt him. Hurt his body and his mind, and then he let the witcher go. Here, that’s done. Strip the leaves off this, please,” he said as he handed Jaskier a bundle of dried herbs.

“The next spring, Coen-- you remember Coen-- travelled south and heard tales of a witcher gone rogue, attacking anyone who came near him. Coen chased him down, bound him, and took him back to Vesemir at Kaer Morhen. The witcher didn’t know any of us, and none of us knew him. He was certain we meant him harm. All the other Bears were dead, as far as we knew. And even if they hadn’t been, the Bears aren’t close to each other, aren’t even really friends. There was no one who could even begin to lead him back to himself.”

Jaskier plucked several more leaves before asking reluctantly, “What happened to him?”

“Vesemir put him down. No one could have helped him.”

Jaskier threw down the herbs he was holding and turned to face Eskel. “Why are you telling me this? Why would you tell a story like that right now? What for?”

“Because Geralt is lucky to have people who know him, and who were willing to help him. Even if he can’t see that now.” Eskel swept the little pile of leaves Jaskier had accumulated into his hand, and brushed them into the bowl of boiling liquid. Then he looked at Jaskier and raised an eyebrow. “I imagine you’re not used to people hating you.”

“Not really.” It had been Jaskier’s life’s purpose to make people love him. His whole career had been built around it. The jealous husbands who wanted to kill him didn’t bother him; it wasn’t personal, after all. But with Geralt, of course, it was different.

“It may be he decides to go back to Kaer Morhen and never speak to you again.”

“He’d like that, I think.” After seeing how different Geralt was with Eskel around, Jaskier felt guilty for not having tried to send Geralt there before, snowed-in passes be damned.

“Whether he hates you or not, I’m grateful to you. Thank you for bringing him back to us. I imagine it will take all of us to help him, but you’ve made a start, which was more than the rest of us could do. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be hurt if he’d taken it into his head to forget who I was and then to hate me.” Eskel settled a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “But he’s not the only person whose opinion matters. You’re worth just as much, even if he never forgives you.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier said hoarsely.

_Jaskier turned into another drafty hallway in the far reaches of Kaer Morhen and, seeing no one, sighed. He’d been looking for Geralt since he’d disappeared after supper, and had resorted to searching increasingly remote parts of the castle. He spotted a lantern at the end of the next corridor and followed its glow to see a ladder propped up against the wall. Both the ladder and the trap door were in incongruously good repair compared to the rest of the room, which seemed to follow Kaer Morhen’s general “dilapidated ruin chic” style of decorating._

_With a quick prayer to Melitele that he not fall to his death, Jaskier ascended the ladder and pushed through the trap door. The light of the lantern penetrated not at all into the inky darkness of the attic, but luckily an expansive section of the southern roof was missing, and the brilliant stars in the moonless sky gave enough light that he wouldn’t accidentally fall off the side of the building. He stepped off the ladder and let the trap door down gently behind him._

_A voice came out of the darkness. “Jaskier?”_

_Jaskier stumbled backwards and yelped only a little, and was answered by two raspy chuckles._

_“Witchers and their bloody eyes,” Jaskier muttered._

_A flame flared halfway across the attic, and Jaskier could make out two sets of yellow eyes: Geralt and Eskel, huddled in a nest of furs and blankets. Eskel held a neat little orange flame on his finger like a tame bird._

_“Show off,” Geralt muttered._

_“Am I interrupting?” Jaskier asked._

_“Wouldn’t hesitate to throw you out if you were,” Eskel said solemnly._

_“You’re not.” Geralt beckoned him over. “Come here.”_

_Jaskier carefully picked his way across the rotting floor towards them. Geralt scooted over so Jaskier could climb into the nest between them, sheltered from the cold by two extremely warm witchers. Once Jaskier was settled, Eskel let the flame on his finger fade out, leaving them in darkness again. Their nest faced the open sky visible through the absent roof, and the spread of stars on such a still, clear night was spectacular._

_“So… what are we doing here?” Jaskier asked._

_“A few years ago--” Eskel began._

_“Decades,” Geralt put in, and Eskel sighed._

_“I found some notes in the chronicles about a rain of falling stars that occurred every year. Vesemir helped me work out the dates. It’s a sight worth seeing.”_

_“Huh. Well, the view is really impressive here. Look, you can see the Wounded Rabbit.” Jaskier pointed at a constellation to the east. “And there’s the Lesser Ale Cask.”_

_“Those aren’t--” Eskel began, but Geralt interrupted him._

_“He has his own system.”_

_“Well, in that case.” Eskel leaned back against the blankets, Jaskier settled his head on Geralt’s shoulder, and the three of them watched the sky until they heard voices below._

_By and by the trap door lifted again and Yennefer emerged, bundled in luxurious furs from head to foot. She reached a hand down, and a moment later Vesemir appeared, carrying an armful of blankets._

_“Sorry we’re late lads,” Vesemir said. “We couldn’t find-- Ah, it seems he found you.”_

_They extended the nest with the new supply of blankets. Yennefer settled in on Geralt’s other side, and Vesemir beside her. They’d also brought a demijohn of White Seagull, which Jaskier knew from experience to decline._

_After a bit of fussing, they all settled down again, and Jaskier did his best to scandalize Vesemir and Yennefer by composing increasingly outlandish names for the constellations. “That one there is the Pock-faced Milkmaid. See her bucket there? Very auspicious star sign, that one. Ah, and see, to the right of it, the Engorged Bollocks of the Divine Bull._

_“Where?” Vesemir asked, sounding a bit bewildered._

_“Don’t encourage him,” Yennefer advised. “That’s usually best.”_

_The trap door banged open, and a bundle of furs and blankets flew through it, followed shortly by Lambert, whose scowl was only briefly visible to Jaskier in the lamp light before he shut the trap door._

_“Oh good,” he said, sounding anything but pleased. “Everyone’s here.”_

_“Yes, isn’t it good?” Eskel asked placidly. He squeezed in towards Jaskier to make room on his side of the nest, and with only the usual amount of grumbling, Lambert had himself ensconced in a blanket cocoon of satisfactory quality and size in very little time._

_They lay watching stars streak across the sky and passing around the White Seagull until Jaskier’s nose grew numb. He tucked his face against Geralt’s warm neck to thaw it, though he kept peeking out to watch the dance of the stars._

_“Vesemir,” Geralt said eventually. “Would you tell the story of how Freyja wove the night sky?”_

_Lambert and Eskel both made encouraging sounds, and even Yennefer looked interested, but Vesemir made a dismissive gesture._

_“Oh, please!” Jaskier threw in. “I haven’t heard that one. I’d love to be able to write it down for the library at Oxenfurt.” Geralt gave him a gentle squeeze where he had his arm around his waist._

_Vesemir sighed. “Very well.” Everyone snuggled down further into their wraps, and Vesemir began. “Long, long ago, there was no moon, no stars, and no night sky at all.”_

“Right.” Eskel pressed stoppers into two bottles, and held them out to Jaskier. “Give him these to start with. He should try the black one first and then the green bottle, but not too soon. His tolerance is likely depleted, and rebuilding it will take time.”

“No, you’ll have to do it.” Jaskier held up his hands, not reaching for the bottles. “He won’t take them from me.”

“What, you might poison him?” Eskel asked dryly.

“I did. I… Didn’t he tell you?” Here Jaskier had been assuming that Eskel’s kindness was being extended to him despite knowing what he’d done to hurt Geralt. But if Geralt hadn’t told him, then someone had to. He deserved to know why Geralt hated him. “Yennefer gave me powder to use on him, a spell that compelled him, controlled him.”

“I see.” Eskel narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more.

“I hurt him.” The words poured out of Jaskier, a flood of explanation he had to get out before Eskel said anything else that gave him too much credit. “I humiliated him in front of-- I fucked him while he was trying to fight me off, Eskel. You shouldn’t stand here and thank me.”

“You got him out.” Eskel took a step towards him, and Jaskier stepped back.

“And I made him-- I made him do things he didn’t want to do. Things he hated. I hurt him and I made him pretend to enjoy it.” Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, thinking of it. 

“Because you had to.”

“I chose to. No one made me do it. No one made me do that to him.”

“Jaskier, it was--”

“Don’t say it was for the best. Geralt doesn’t think so, and he’s really the one whose opinion matters here.” He turned away from Eskel as his gut clenched painfully. His head felt too light, and he gripped the edge of the work table to steady himself.

“It’s not--”

“And don’t you dare say it’s not my fault!” Jaskier whirled back and brandished a finger at Eskel. “Don’t you dare.” His heart pounded in his chest, and he was finding it difficult to get enough air.

“Are you going to let me--”

“No! You come in here being all… nice!” Jaskier waved his hands. “And you have no idea!” He gulped for breath, but it came only shallowly. “You’re supposed to be on _his_ side! Aren’t you--”

Eskel threw out his hand towards Jaskier, palm up, and cupped a flare of blue fire in his fingers, capturing Jaskier’s attention and stopping him mid-sentence. Eskel drew the magical flame down until it was a neatly controlled blaze in his hand that held Jaskier’s focus entirely.

“Stop,” Eskel said evenly. “Breathe, Jaskier.”

With his eyes on the flame, Jaskier drew in a slow breath that mirrored Eskel’s own. 

“Sit down.” Jaskier backed up a few steps and dropped into the overstuffed armchair in the corner.

“Keep breathing. You’re all right.” Eskel crouched in front of him. The blue flame still blazed atop his palm. “Listen. No harm’s going to come to you. You're safe.”

Jaskier breathed. His gut unclenched, and after a minute his heart wasn’t racing so rabbit fast. 

“You’re fine.” Eskel got the listening look Geralt used to get when he was about to scold Jaskier about exhausting himself. “You’re calm. You’re fine.”

Jaskier felt calm. He felt fine. He settled back into the armchair, and muscles that had been bowstring-taut loosened easily.

“Good. Thank you.” Eskel closed his fingers over the blue flame and it disappeared. 

When Jaskier could speak again, which wasn’t for several long moments, he asked, “What was that?”

“Axii. It’s a sign. Witchers use it to manipulate minds. Or calm down frightened animals. And humans.” Eskel squinted at him. “You feeling all right now?”

“Manipulate minds?” Jaskier tried to remember to keep breathing.

“Mm-hm.” Eskel rose and returned to the work table. “Always a choice whether using it is justified. It circumvents the subject’s will, but we use it for their own good.”

“Are you trying to make a point?”

“Well,” Eskel said as he began tying up his little bundles of ingredients, “I was trying to calm you down, but I do think it makes a good point.” 

“You shouldn’t…” Jaskier struggled out of the chair, his limbs feeling strangely heavy. He came to stand next to Eskel and stared at the stoppered bottles of elixir. “You’re his oldest friend, and if he’s going to hate me, you should at least know why.”

“And now I do.”

“Sorry.” Jaskier tapped his fingers on the work table and shook his head. “You didn’t come here to listen to me.”

“What are friends for?” Eskel patted Jakier's back, making him stumble only a little, then turned to pick up the two bottles of elixir. “Now pay attention. I still have to teach you how to heat this one properly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick canon note: Vesemir is one of the witchers who trained Geralt at Kaer Morhen, and something of a father figure. Eskel and Lambert are fellow witchers. Eskel grew up with Geralt and is one of his closest friends. Lambert's main characteristic in the book is being kind of a prickly jerk, but one who's still loyal to his witcher family. 
> 
> One more chapter to go in this part of the trilogy! Thanks so much for all your support thus far as I churned out, uh *checks notes* nearly 50,000 words in the last month. I credit y'all with keeping my motivation up!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to hobbit and jaunechat for beta assistance.

Geralt heard the clank and scrape of a metal on metal. He turned instinctively with his sword up to counter the attack. His blade cleaved a shadowy form which whirred away, shrieking. He turned, looking for the next enemy beyond the circle of trees in which he stood. The flash of moonlight glinting off silver drew his attention. He saw Vesemir first, his blade striking with grace and precision. Eskel and Lambert guarded his flanks: Eskel with his measured pace, alternating signs and swordwork, Lambert with his furious offensive, never taking a step in retreat. 

“What are you waiting for, boy?” Vesemir snapped. He slashed at another monster in the shadows, and turned his head to look at Geralt. “Go. Hurry!”

“We’ll hold them here,” Eskel called. He threw a Sign of Aard that cleared a swath of enemies before him, then stepped up to cover Geralt’s position. “Go.”

Geralt turned toward the trees and followed the sound of someone calling him up ahead. He held his silver sword in two hands. It reflected the dim starlight that barely penetrated the thick canopy of trees. He moved quickly through the darkness, sure of his footing despite the uneven ground. He could smell crushed pine needles, rotting leaves, and the distant promise of rain. Something wasn’t right.

A dream. Only in his dreams could Geralt see and smell and hear the way he should. He stumbled to a halt. The forest blurred and warped around him wherever he turned.

“You’ll never find him this way.” The sorceress stood beside him. He recognized her voice, but her face was unfamiliar. It entranced him. Her violet eyes looked dark and unfathomable in the starlight. “You can’t see him.” She touched a hand to his cheek. Geralt blinked. The forest suddenly seemed alight and alive as if he’d drunk an elixir. “Go, hurry.”

The voice calling for him grew louder. He felt his heartbeat speed in his chest. His legs carried him forward. What was he hunting? What did he need to find? An agonized scream echoed through the trees. The scent of blood tainted the air. 

Geralte hurried forward, hunting the source of the scream. Something moved in the trees, a massive, dark form. Below it, a man sprawled on the floor of the forest, his colorful clothing torn and stained with blood. 

The man tried to move, but gave an agonized moan and dropped back to the ground. Geralt’s stomach lurched. He rushed towards the monster's victim. The darkness rose around him. Geralt saw that the shadows themselves were what he fought. He whirled, silver sword flashing as he struck at the wisps of shadow surrounding him. He lost himself in the blow-parry-turn, the dance of silver and darkness. He pirouetted and struck again. This time his blade cleaved flesh.

The man who had been on the ground stood before Geralt, blue eyes wide. His hands groped at the sword that was buried in his chest. Geralt knew him, recognized him, didn't he? His face, expressive in its agony, struck something in Geralt. The man gasped his name once more. Then he fell backwards, sliding off of Geralt's blade and crumbling to the ground. Geralt stood frozen, staring down at him, with the shadows swirling around them both.

Geralt sat up in bed, blinking his sightless eyes in the darkness as he listened. 

A dream. Only a dream. The image of that man’s face, mouth open, blue eyes staring and vacant as he fell away came too easily to mind. Geralt’s heart beat faster than it should; he breathed deeply to slow it. He was alone, in the room the sorceress had given him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked over to the weapons rack. His silver sword stood in its place next to the steel sword, both sharp and ready for use. Not covered in blood. Nothing seemed out of place, but the feeling of uneasiness in his belly didn’t go away. 

Gradually he became aware of the sound of a voice from outside his room. There was a time when he could have pinpointed its source and known what was being said, but now along with the sound came the taste of grit and ashes, muting and warping his perception. He waited for the sound to move away, but it only grew louder. 

His choices, he supposed, were to sit here, not sleeping, and wonder what the sound was while trying not to think of the dream he’d just had, or to find out where the sound was coming from. Geralt pulled on the pair of breeches and the shirt he’d discarded before going to sleep. He strode to the door, pulled it open, and listened again. 

The voice came from a door down the corridor and around the corner. As Geralt stood, straining the limited abilities of his hearing, he heard his own name. Suddenly suspicious, he crept toward the door and listened for another moment as the shouting continued before grabbing the handle and shoving the door open.

“Don't, don't,” came the voice that had been calling out, but it sounded muffled, confused. Not ordering Geralt out, then. And when Geralt breathed in, he knew whose room this was. The bard, Jaskier. And he had been calling out in his sleep, calling out for Geralt.

Jaskier clearly wasn’t in any actual danger. His breathing was fast and harsh, and Geralt could hear him thrashing against the restraint of his bed sheets. He would likely wake on his own before too long. It wasn't Geralt's responsibility to play nursemaid to this man. He should leave.

“Geralt,” came his voice again, and he sounded so desperate that Geralt almost answered out of reflex. The man couldn’t be playacting in his sleep, could he? No one cried out like that to a stranger.

_“Hey.” A blunted claw nudged Geralt’s shoulder, and he sat up quickly, head spinning with the sudden movement. “Shut up. You shouting again in sleep.”_

_Geralt rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed. His latest cellmate, a cantankerous psoglav, never hesitated to notify Geralt of what he considered objectionable behavior._

_“Sounded like nightmare. You call out for someone. Oscar? Then you call out for your chickens.” The psoglav let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Hen, hen, hen. Like a farmboy.”_

_“Witchers don’t have nightmares,” Geralt muttered. He leaned back against the cool wall, with its rough texture that sounded like the rasp of steel on stone. He hadn’t noticed the sweat soaking his hair and running down his back. The heat of the summer must be penetrating even down here._

_“You not very good witcher.” The psoglav jabbed Geralt in the ribs again. Luckily his claws had been filed down from their natural sharp points, or he might have skewered him. “Break rules. Have nightmares for sure.”_

_“I don’t remember them.”_

_“You try? It take practice.”_

_“No.” Geralt was fairly certain he didn’t want to. His days provided plenty of fodder for nightmares, as did his whole career. What was the point of giving the unconscious meanderings of his mind any attention at all?_

_“If witchers had emotions, I would say you scared. But witchers no scared.”_

_“I’ll try not to wake you again.” Geralt scraped the straw around him back into a scant pile so he could lie down._

_“Good luck. Only way fix nightmare, face thing you scared of.” The psoglav huffed in disapproval. “You not learn this when you were pup? Common knowledge. You not know what you scared of, how you face it?”_

_“Witchers don’t get scared,” Geralt said wearily. “You said so yourself.”_

_“You not want my help, fine. I ignore your shouts.”_

_“Hen?” Geralt asked, shaking his head at the puzzle._

_“Cluck cluck cluck, here chickies!” The psoglav’s impression sounded very strange delivered through a face with a dog-like muzzle. “Hen,” he chuckled once more, and then settled down._

_Geralt lay down again, but it took him a long time to fall asleep. In the morning he remembered no dreams._

Jaskier made a high-pitched, pained noise in his throat, and his legs thudded against the mattress as he kicked. Geralt would just wake him up and then leave. That was all. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped. He swallowed and tried again. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”Still those panicked, wordless noises spilled from him. Geralt stepped forward and shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up!”

“What--?” Jaskier’s hand flew up to grab Geralt’s wrist, and his touch caused a sudden swell of harmonic vibration in Geralt’s ears. “Geralt!” He snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned. “Sorry. I won’t… Did I wake you?”

“No.” Geralt should go now. Shut himself safely in his room. Get back into his own bed.

“You should be sleeping.” The sheets rustled as Jaskier sat up. “You need rest.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Geralt snapped.

“No, sorry.” Jaskier shifted in his bed again, and it occurred to Geralt to wonder what Jaskier had worn to sleep. His shoulder had been bare when Geralt had touched it. “I’m done shouting,” Jaskier said. “You can go back to bed.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Geralt asked. He shouldn’t care about this man’s dreams. He should leave.

“It’s not important,” Jaskier said faintly.

“You were calling my name.”

“Was I?” he asked, but he sounded resigned.

“Yes.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“It was just a dream.”

“About?” Geralt asked. Jaskier clearly was not keen on telling him, but Geralt felt within his rights to ask why this man had been calling out for him so desperately. 

“You were hurt…” Jaskier stopped and twisted the sheets in his hand, the rasp of linen smelling faintly of soap.

“What happened?”

“It was snowing. I could hear you fighting, catch glimpses of you in the storm. You were injured-- your blood was on the snow, too much of it. I knew it was yours, somehow, and not from the thing you were fighting. I had something in my hand, something that would help you. A weapon, I think? I tried to reach you, but whenever you caught sight of me you moved away, like I was another enemy. The monster, the thing you were fighting, it was hurting you. I couldn’t get to you. You wouldn’t allow it.” Jaskier sniffled, then drew in a shaky breath. “I could only watch.”

“Hmm.” Dreams didn’t mean anything. They didn’t follow logic. How could Jaskier have helped Geralt in a fight, even if he could have reached him? Why would Jaskier even bother to try? There was no sense to it. 

“Well,” Jaskier said with a too-hearty brightness, “if I didn’t wake you, what did?”

“Nothing.” Geralt didn’t care to explain his own dream, which didn’t have any real meaning either. Just a nonsensical construction of the sleeping mind. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Not likely.” Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “But thank you.”

Geralt should leave. There was no reason for him to stay. But he found himself asking, “What would you normally do to get back to sleep?”

“Play. Sing. Compose.” Jaskier tapped out a brief rhythm on his knee, then chuckled again. “It used to be good for clearing my head.”

“So play something.”

“Nah,” Jaskier said quickly. “It’s not… not now, anyway.”

“What else do bards do? Tell tales?” Geralt perched near the foot of the bed. He didn’t think he could get back to sleep yet. If Jaskier wasn’t sleeping either, perhaps it wouldn’t be terrible to keep each other company. What was there back in his bed anyway, except more nightmares?

“Sometimes.” Jaskier made a bright, excited sound, never a good sign. “Oh, I have it on good authority that you tell excellent bedtime stories.”

“I do not,” Geralt said firmly.

“‘The Fox and the Cat’ was a favorite.”

The story came to mind immediately: one he’d heard from Vesemir as a child. He couldn’t imagine the circumstances under which he’d have been the one telling it. And he wasn’t about to now. “No, I’m not telling a story. You do it.”

“All right.” Jaskier shifted on the bed, flopping back against the pillows and stretching his legs out. “Mmm, I’ve got one. I call this one ‘The Edge of the World.’”

“Appropriately dramatic.” Geralt drew his bare feet up onto the bed and leaned back against the footboard. 

“One sunny morning in the town of Posada, which some call the edge of the world, a noble witcher arrives. He has heard tell of a devil terrorizing the area.”

“There’s no such thing as devils,” Geralt pointed out. He hoped it wouldn’t be one of those stories, telling of manticores with five stingers and gryphons breathing fire. 

“The residents of Posada don’t know that,” Jaskier said with a patient tone. “They only know that a creature with horns has been stealing their grain. So, the noble witcher takes the offered coin and agrees to investigate the problem. Luckily for him, in Posada’s inn, there is a dashing young bard who--”

“Oh, is this a true to life story?” Geralt asked warily.

“Inspired by historical events. Stop interrupting. The dashing young bard agrees to accompany the witcher in order to record the adventure for posterity. The witcher is only too glad of the company, and--”

“Ha.”

Jaskier ignored him. “And the two set off across the plains of Dol Blathanna in search of the troublesome devil. The witcher rides atop his steed, a strong and elegant chestnut mare, not a better horse in the world. The most valiant, the fastest, the--”

“Go on,” Geralt said with a wave, though he couldn’t help the smile that briefly turned up the corners of his mouth. 

“When they reach a certain field, the noble witcher begins to stalk the form of a devil lurking in the shadows.”

“On a sunny morning? In the middle of a field?”

“Hush. Suddenly, the devil breaks from hiding and savagely attacks the witcher and his companion. The intrepid bard falls, gravely wounded, but the witcher uses all his strength and cunning to subdue the beast. He has the devil within his grasp. What the witcher does not know, could not have known, is that there is a band of elves--”

“Hiding nearby,” Geralt broke in. He could picture the scene: a field of waving hemp, the mountains rising beyond. And when he awoke... “Filavandrel. The Sylvan.”

“Wh--How,” Jaskier sputtered. “You remember?!”

“They took me to a cave, tied me up.” But he hadn’t been alone, he recalled. Someone had been with him, someone he had been trying to get the elves to release. One of the villagers, perhaps? A local guide?

“Then what happened?” Jaskier leaned forward, and the bed creaked.

Geralt remembered baring his throat for Filavandrel’s knife. Remembered telling them to let the human go. Remembered the heavy dread of thinking they wouldn’t. “They decided not to kill me. And I left.”

Jaskier waited a moment, then asked. “That’s all?”

“Yes.” Geralt could remember no more of the encounter until he’d pointed Roach’s head south and rode away. “Why, what happens in your story?”

“The noble witcher pleads with the elves to release the bard, and even tells Filavandrel, king of the elves, that he is ready to die, if Filavandrel feels he must kill him. His bravery so impresses the elf king that he lets the noble witcher and his companion go free. And the witcher, moved to pity by Filavandrel’s plight, gives them all of the coin the people of Posada had paid him to rid them of a devil.”

“I did. They needed food.” Geralt had felt relieved, but not for himself. He had been ready to die. But he hadn’t been the only one there.

“And by way of apology for their mistreatment, Filavandrel gifted the bard his lute, finely crafted in the shining towers of an ancient elven palace.”

“Now that you made up.”

Jaskier hopped off the bed and stepped away, but returned almost immediately to sit next to Geralt against the footboard. He held something bulky that gave a hollow thud when he jolted it. There was some shuffling as Jaskier undid the leather straps on a case. “Here, see for yourself.”

Jaskier held the something out, and Geralt took it gingerly, cradling the wood in his hands. Geralt didn’t know fuck all about instruments, but he did know about elven craftsmanship. The wood was polished and smooth to the touch, with thin tracks traced into its face that smelled like silver and sprayed blue flecks across his vision. 

_”This again?” Lord Iwen’s voice was almost bored. “I really thought you’d learned better.”_

_“Fuck off,” Geralt gritted out between clenched teeth from where his face was pressed to the stone floor._

_One of the guards kicked Geralt hard in the side. He curled around the blow and grunted. He took some comfort that he could still hear the agonized groans of the lordly guest he’d gutted, to whom Iwen’s healers were no doubt tending. The sounds of pain tasted like sticky sweet honey on his tongue._

_“Don’t you care that your misbehavior will result in punishment for someone else?” Iwen asked._

_“No.” Geralt had barely spoken to the werebubb they’d put in with him last week. He’d decided not to get involved. What happened to this one wouldn’t be his responsibility. Iwen and his men controlled that. They controlled everything. And why should Geralt care about another prisoner? No one cared about him. No one out in the world missed him, or even remembered him. Perhaps his Wolf School brothers would think of him once in a while, but they’d lost so many already, what was one more? The world was wide, and no one in it gave two shits whether Geralt spared his own life or another’s by cooperating, or if he refused and faced the consequences._

_“You know, I was very pleased when my men reported they’d acquired not just any witcher, but Geralt of Rivia, the famous White Wolf.” Iwen crouched near Geralt, not close enough to be in reach, sadly. Geralt wouldn’t have minded adding to the healer’s tasks tonight. “I’ll admit I was concerned the first year or two you were here that someone might try to steal you from me. It was rumored that the White Wolf had powerful friends: a renowned sorceress, member of the Brotherhood. And of course, the troubadour who sang of your exploits.”_

_Geralt blinked slowly. Iwen must have confused him with someone else-- he knew no one he’d met in his years on the Path that might fit those descriptions. He might have counted Triss Merigold as an ally, though he had no reason to expect she harbored particularly warm feelings for him. And he’d never voluntarily spent time in the company of any troubadour. But something about the idea nagged at him, as if prodding at a hole where a tooth had been knocked out._

_“But my worries were for nothing. They didn’t arrive to liberate you. Because no one cared,” Iwen said. “Though you’ve lived two or three lifetimes, you’ve behaved in such a way that no one valued you enough to come after you. Do you deny it?”_

_Being valued wasn’t Geralt’s purpose. Witchers didn’t make friends. Witchers didn’t fall in love. Witchers stuck to the Path. He’d always done that well._

_“Your master asked you a question,” one of the guards said, and kicked Geralt again._

_“No,” Geralt spat, just to shut him up._

_“Now we see why. You can’t control your urges to violence, even if it means innocents are hurt by your rampaging. That is what they say, I suppose. Witchers have no emotions. They’re made only to kill. I thought you were better than that, but you’re making me doubt my judgement. Are you going to behave?”_

_Geralt turned his face away and didn’t answer. There was no answer he was willing to make that would avoid a punishment, in any case, so he may as well not give Iwen the satisfaction. It didn’t matter what Iwen believed about him. It didn’t matter what anyone believed about him._

_“Fine.” Iwen sighed and pushed to his feet. “Beat him and leave him tied. And whatever else you like, besides,” Iwen told the guards. Then he leaned down to address Geralt. “We will revisit this discussion in the morning. I hope you will have reconsidered by then, witcher.”_

“Did you really get this from Filavandrel?” Geralt asked, trailing his fingers across the graceful curve of the lute’s neck, which sent a resonating sliver of sound rushing through him.

“Yes.”

Geralt considered the story. He certainly didn’t remember everything about meeting Filavandrel. It was possible. “You said you were gravely wounded.”

“A poetic exaggeration. There was bleeding, though,” Jaskier explained. “I’ve only occasionally been gravely wounded a time or two traveling with you. Not for lack of trying, I’ll admit. I think sometimes you despaired of me.”

“You said I once wished for a djinn to steal your voice,” Geralt pointed out.

“You apologized. Eventually. I was fine in the end.”

“But why would you keep following me around?” Geralt asked. Nearly killed by eleves, cursed by a djinn. Any sane man would have run in the other direction, even one who was looking for a tale to spin into a song.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jaskier sounded genuinely baffled.

“No one else does.”

“Well, let me see. You’re absurdly handsome, a legend in your profession, and so compassionate it has made me actually weep on occasion. And,” Jaskier added, “you’re funny. People miss that, but it’s actually quite obvious once you know what to look for.”

“Funny?” Geralt echoed.

“I could never love a man who wasn’t funny,” Jaskier said. Then he drew in a quick breath. “Uh… sorry.”

“Hmm.” Geralt easily remembered what Eskel had said, what he’d told Geralt he’d said himself. _A treasure you would rather die than relinquish._ Had some version of him really felt that way about this man?

“I’m sorry. I’ll just...” Jaskier took back his lute and started to pull away.

Geralt gripped his arm and tugged him back, awash suddenly in a quick-moving melody that whirled around them. They were close, Jaskier’s bare skin pressed against Geralt’s chest. “You love me?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice was almost too quiet to be heard. “I thought you might have known.”

“I didn’t.” 

Jaskier’s heart was thudding loud enough for even Geralt’s diminished hearing to notice it. His breaths had gone shallow, as if he barely dared to move. Jaskier wasn’t pulling away, but he wasn’t leaning in, either. Wasn’t demanding anything. Just waiting for what Geralt would do. The warmth where their skin touched came along with a rising musical hum. Geralt closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of him, which was familiar as if from a dream, the good kind.

Geralt released his grip on Jaskier’s arm and sat back. 

Jaskier let out a quick breath and pulled away. They both sat in silence, their breath loud and itching over Geralt’s skin. After a moment, Jaskier began settling his lute back in its case and closing it up.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” Geralt said. He was, truly. It would have been simpler by far to know what to do if he remembered the things everyone else seemed to. 

“It’s all right. You remember other things.” Jaskier froze, and his breath caught in his throat. “Wait, you do, don’t you? In fact, you remember everything else. You know who Istredd is. You know Eskel and Filavandrel. Do you know who Triss Merigold is?”

“Yes,” Geralt said slowly, not understanding this sudden switch to interrogation.

“Dainty Biberveldt, of the Knotweed Meadow Biberveldts?”

“Are there other Dainty Biberveldts?” Geralt asked dryly.

“Queen Calanthe of Cintra.”

“Everyone knows who--

“Do you remember meeting her?” Jaskier asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“What about the mayor of Rinde, Beau Berrant?”

“Hmm.” Geralt frowned. Rinde he recalled only hazily. 

“No?” 

“Vaguely.” Geralt could conjure up an image of the mayor in his memory. “He had… apple juice?”

“That is a strange thing to remember,” Jaskier said, but he sounded pleased. “Tell me about, uh, the dragon hunt.”

“In Caingorn? I went on a dragon hunt.”

“But why?” Jaskier asked. “You don’t kill dragons.”

“A man named Borch asked me.”

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“I did at first. Then…” Geralt remembered a conversation in an inn and some good ale. He remembered refusing Borch. After that, the trip up the mountain. Some dwarves. Had they ever encountered the dragon they were hunting? “I don’t remember.”

“And what about the djinn?” Jaskier asked urgently. “Do you remember fishing for a djinn?”

“Fishing? Why would I…” An image came to him of a lake shore, a sunny morning, a clay amphora. “In a net. Because I was tired?”

“Yes, and then…” Jaskier prompted.

Geralt could picture the wizard’s seal in his hand, the amphora broken on the ground, and then nothing. “I don’t know.”

“Ooo. This is interesting.” Jaskier clapped his hands together. “I think this might be important. Geralt, the holes in your memory seem to be very, very specific.”

“So?”

“So doesn’t that strike you as, I don’t know, strange? Odd? Unnatural?”

“It’s a curse.” Curses were, by their nature, odd and unnatural.

“Yes. But it’s a very narrow curse. And that may mean something.” Jaskier launched himself off the bed, and Geralt could hear the rustling of him hurriedly dressing. Then he dashed towards the door and stopped. “Come with me. Will you come with me?”

“Fine.” Geralt had no idea what Jaskier thought was important about the holes in his memory, but he was willing to investigate almost any possibility, especially if it meant regaining his sight. 

Jaskier raced ahead of him, pausing at turnings and landings for Geralt to catch up. He stopped to pound on a closed door. 

“Yen! Yennefer!” Jaskier pounded more forcefully as Geralt caught up to him. Someone violently yanked open the door.

“What in the name of Melitele’s festering pustules are you doing at my door at this hour?” Yennefer snarled.

“Hello, good morning,” Jaskier said brightly. “I think we’ve discovered something.”

“This had better be important, Jaskier.” The sorceress's voice was dark with threat.

“It is. May we come in?”

The door bumped against the wall as Yennefer wordlessly pushed it open.

“Come on,” Jaskier said, and hurried inside. Geralt followed somewhat more slowly.

Yennefer shut the door behind them. “Well?”

“Geralt, tell her what you told me,” Jaskier said. 

“Which part?” Geralt asked, frowning in Jaskier’s general direction. The man was pacing back and forth so fast he was practically running. 

“Rinde!”

“The mayor had apple juice?” Geralt offered. He still had no idea what Yennefer would find remotely interesting about any of these half-memories. 

“See?” Jaskier went to Yennefer and seemed to be turning the full force of his energy on her. “He remembers apple juice, remembers finding the djinn, but nothing else that happened in Rinde. He remembers going on a dragon hunt in Caingorn, but not why, or what we found. He knows who Triss is, Istredd, Borch, Filavandrel.”

“Mm.” Yennefer no longer sounded irritated. “He can’t see us.”

“Exactly,” Jaskier said. “Just us.”

“We’re the anchor,” Yennefer said slowly. “It’s us.”

“It’s us,” Jaskier agreed. 

When no one made any move to elaborate, Geralt asked, “What the fuck does that mean?” 

Yennefer came to him and reached out to take his hand. “It means I know how to reverse what they did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have now reached the end of the middle! The third story in the trilogy will wrap up this arc. And hey, now that there are no social events or live entertainment, more time for writing! So feel free to subscribe to this series to get updated when the next part is posted, and/or come find me [on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill). Many, many thanks to all of you whose comments have encouraged me and helped keep me going!


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